A Bitter Ale
by Neoinean
Summary: Everyone gathers at Joe's bar for some holiday cheer and Methos tells the others about when he first tasted beer, which of course involves the horsemen...
1. Arrivals

Universe: A virtual "6th" season wherein "Modern Prometheus" was the finale of season 5 and ignores all events in the "real" season 5 finale and all of season 6, as well as the last movie. This season takes place 1997-1998

Summary: Beer is one of the oldest institutions on the planet. Methos is the oldest human being on the planet. His history with beer must be a long and bittersweet affair…

Disclaimer: If I owned them why would I waste my time posting to fanfic sites? I'd be off making lots and lots of money! But since I'm not, I therefore don't, nor do I pretend to.

* * *

Most Seacouver Decembers were cold and intolerably damp, and this one was no different. Outside, it couldn't make up its mind as to weather or not it wanted to precipitate, and when it did, it still couldn't seem to choose between rain, sleet, or snow. The roads were rapidly becoming slick and dangerous, if not from the visible winter slush than from the even deadlier black ice. Joe Dawson kept one of his bar televisions tuned to the Weather Channel, worrying in spite of himself about the safety of his immortal friends whom he knew that at that very moment were all attempting to rendezvous at his bar for a pre-Christmas get together.

No one was due for a good half hour yet, and Joe hoped that one of them had the foresight to bring takeout, because he had already decided not to call for pizza as previously planned. Disgusted with the local forecast, Joe switched on another television. After flipping through a few channels he decided to leave it on one of the hundreds of broadcasts of _It's a Wonderful Life_ scheduled for this Christmas season and went to warm up the grill, just in case. Joe was grateful he had stocked up on beer, and hoped that no one would be disappointed if their pre-Christmas feast consisted of Buffalo wings and cheese fries.

He caught himself looking out a window with an air of worry and laughed to himself. "They're immortal," he reminded himself. "Sure it would be a disappointment if Mac totaled his T-bird, but he'd live through it. Besides, if they were truly worried about the weather, they'd call and say they couldn't make it."

A wistful sigh escaped his lips before he could stop it. All of his closest friends were immortal. He didn't make many mortal friends outside the watcher organization, and none of them were close. Now almost all of his watcher friends were dead, and the immortals remained. Just as they would remain when he himself was dead and gone. Unconsciously he massaged one thigh above its stump that proved his fragility. However much he may be considered their friend, he will always remain on the outside of their circle, looking in.

However, his thoughts quickly turn from longings for immortality with any serious consideration of them. He has read—and witnessed first hand, how painful and lonely the immortal existence can be, and as much as he (and every other human being) fears death, he can hold to the fact that he should by right pre-decease them all, and he decided long ago that that was better than living through the pain of their loss.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the back door opening, and Joe turned to see Richie enter his bar.

"Richie!" Joe called out as he made his way towards the young man, but stopped short when he saw what the young man looked like. Richie had stumbled in, drenched from head to toe and shaking like a leaf. He still wore his biking gear, and when he removed his helmet Joe gasped. Richie's hair and face were streaked with dried blood, smeared with heavy amounts of sweat.

"Coffee," was all Richie was able to say. It came out strained, as if he nearly choked on the word.

"Jesus, Rich," Joe muttered as he closed the gap between them. If MacLeod was the kid's father, then Joe liked to consider himself the favorite uncle. Forgetting that Richie was immortal he put his arm around him protectively, and putting their collective weight oh his cane, maneuvered Richie to one of the booths in the back. The snow was melting in puddles around him, and by the time Joe made it back with a cup of coffee—with a generous dose of Irish whiskey, Richie seemed to regain more of his sense of awareness.

"Thanks Joe," Richie said as he put his hands around the large mug and breathed in the aroma.

Joe sat in the booth across from Richie. "You're welcome."

Richie took a big gulp and nearly choked. "You spiked it?"

Joe just smiled, and then they both started laughing. As anxious as he was to find out what the hell had happened, Joe learned early on not to pressure Richie for his secrets. Unlike MacLeod, who would usually tell Joe just about anything concerning his present-day circumstances, Richie was nearly as tight lipped as Methos, only easier to read. Only when Richie had finished the coffee and sat back in the booth with a sigh did Joe speak up.

"You should probably get out of those clothes if you want them to dry."

"Yeah, I know," Richie agreed. "I'm gonna head to the bathroom and wash up."

"Alright. You know the way." Joe smiled as Richie walked over to the men's room. Once he warmed up some and got the coffee in him he began acting like his normal self again.

Alone again, Joe allowed himself to frown. He knew that whatever happened to Richie didn't have anything to do with another immortal. If he had fought a challenge and won, he'd still be under the effects of the quickening. Joe had seen Richie take enough heads that he would have picked up on that immediately. If the battle had been a draw, Richie would have been preoccupied by the thought of the other immortal on the lose gunning for his head, and that worry would have driven him to mention something about it. That left Joe's best guess to be that Richie had lost control of his bike on some weather-slick road.

Thankful for Richie's immortality, the watcher got up and began preparing an order of extra spicy wings, Richie's favorite. The order was almost ready when Richie reemerged, no traces of blood remaining, but still wearing his soaking jeans and sweatshirt and carrying his wet biking gear and jacket in a ball.

"You got a place I can put this, Joe?"

Dawson looked up and frowned. "What's salvageable you can hang in the kitchen above the dish sink to dry. There are garbage bags in the closet next to the freezer for what's not." Joe tried to appear more concerned with the wings than with Richie's still disheveled appearance.

Richie nodded and disappeared into the kitchen again, returning a few moments later. "The jacket's probably had it, but the rest of it should survive ok," he said, walking back to the bar area and sitting on a stool. His lips were still blue and he shivered slightly.

"I could probably find something dry for you to wear. Wouldn't fit you, but it beats seeing you shiver and drip all over my bar."

Richie smiled. "You keep spare clothes at the bar?"

"Ever since the old man and I got snowed in during that freak Thanksgiving Day storm."

This time Richie's smile turned to outright laughter. "Oh yeah!"

They both laughed, Richie at the memory the irony of Methos being snowed in with all the beer he could drink (which, as it turned out, was quite a lot), and Joe at the actual memories of what had happened, which he still hasn't revealed to anyone else.

When the wings were ready Joe dumped them into a basket, grabbed the necessary dips, and slid them across the bar to Richie. "I'll go find those clothes," he said as he walked through the back into the kitchen.

Meanwhile Richie dove hungrily into the wings, letting the radioactive orange spices make his body forget its present situation. Joe emerged from the kitchen a few moments later holding a shopping bag. Richie was too interested in the wings to pay it much attention.

"You can change when you're done," Joe informed him, realizing the only way to remove Richie from his barstool would be by sword point.

"Thanks," said Richie without looking up.

Joe set the bag on the bar and made a show of polishing around the same general area in front of Richie in amicable silence while the young man ate. Richie finished a few more wings before looking up. Joe could sense that there was something on the young man's mind and decided to spare him the trouble of addressing his problems himself.

"Are you going to want to stash the bike in here?" He asked before Richie could open his mouth.

In the same instant the young man's face seemed to both light up and flush deep red. He looked intently into his buffalo sauce for a few moments before responding.

"I sort of, uh, dumped the bike," he said quietly after a pause.

"What?" Joe did his best to make his voice sound more surprised than concerned.

"Yeah. Uh… My bike had a slight disagreement with the weather."

"Did you wipe out?"

Richie's cheeks turned a little pink and he suddenly became very interested in is bare feet on the bar stool cross rung. "No," he said without looking up. Then, after a pause: "Windy Hill Road wasn't salted enough, or plowed. I couldn't make it up without spinning my wheels and sliding back down. I tried to find an alternate route, but I couldn't avoid the hilly section I need to cross in order to get from my apartment to the bar. I was planning on stopping for Chinese on the way, figured it would be safer to eat in tonight with all this weather." Another pause, during which Joe nodded in agreement. "Well like I said, I couldn't avoid the hilly section, so the only thing I could do was get off my bike and push."

"Well that explains why you came in here looking like a little drown rat," Joe declared.

Richie laughed slightly before continuing. "Then my bike wouldn't start once I climbed the hill. Gas line froze I think."

"I see," said Joe, leaving the unspoken question thick in the air.

Richie seemed to gather his courage and then continued. "Well, my bike isn't exactly light, and pushing it uphill is hard and tiring." Joe nodded. Richie swallowed. Whatever it was he was reluctant to share it. "I took my helmet off because the visor was fogging up."

"So that's why you're head was vulnerable," said Joe, mostly to himself, and he would have regretting saying it out loud but Richie spoke first.

"Yeah—no! No it wasn't an immortal or anything, Joe."

Joe smiled, knowing that Richie would take it as a sign of relief. In truth he had already deduced that much, but Richie's concern over his possible concern was touching.

Richie continued, rather sheepishly: "It turns out that the hill was just as slippery on the way down." Joe laughed as Richie blushed. "I don't know what happened. One minute I'm shuffling down hill because my bike won't start, and the next I revive beneath my bike at the bottom of the hill." Richie shrugged and sat lower in his stool, signaling he was done with his tale.

"Good thing no one saw you," the watcher proclaimed.

"No kidding!" Richie readily agreed. "How embarrassing!"

Joe shot Richie a sharp look but Richie just laughed. He was kidding and they both knew it and shared in the joke.

"Anyway," said Richie once the laughter died down, "I forgot about stopping for Chinese and just pushed my bike all the way here. I stashed it behind the ally behind the bar. It'll probably need some bodywork, but it should survive." Then the immortal looked at his watch. "Made it almost on time, too."

"Actually," said Joe, "you're early." Then he noticed that Richie was still shaking badly from being in his wet clothes. "Tell you what, I'll go turn the heat up, you finish your wings and change your clothes."

"Right," said Richie, returning to his basket of wings as Joe disappeared into the kitchen again. "Hey, Joe?" He called after him.

Joe stuck his head back through the doorframe. "Yeah Rich?"

"Please, don't tell Mac about this. I'd never hear the end of it."

Joe nodded. "Sure thing."

Richie smiled his thanks and returned to his wings as Joe returned to the kitchen.

Secretly Joe was smiling to himself. He knew that if MacLeod were here, he'd have been insistent on learning what had happened to Richie right away, and then probably would have laid a lecture down on top of it that would have increased the tension between them for the entire evening, essentially ruining it for all. Joe knew how to handle Richie, how to get him to open up about things. There's been many an evening where the bar has been transformed into Immortal Psychotherapy Central, with the revolving cast of characters all coming to him at different intervals. He adjusted the heat with renewed pride in himself and his abilities to bridge the gap between being an immortal's friend _and_ watcher.

Suddenly there was a loud bang and the front door flew open just as Richie felt the buzz of another immortal. Momentary panic surged through him as he remembered that in his earlier predicament he had left his sword in the saddlebag attached to his bike. He had nothing to worry about though, because in strolled Amanda in a very long and expensive black wool winter coat and white angora scarf. A black beret was fixed upon her head for added effect. She slammed the door shut again and removed the beret.

"Richard, I tell you, it's cabbies in this city that make me grateful I'm an immortal, and that's even in good weather!" She unwound the scarf from her neck and took both scarf and beret in her left hand to begin unbuttoning her coat. "How can people who honestly don't know how to drive _ever_ expect to be able to drive in weather like this? Especially since—"

She stopped short once she finally noticed Richie just staring at her, wing sauce on his lip, and water pooling around his barstool. "Richard, you're all wet," she declared as she approached him and helped herself to a wing. She made a face at how spicy it was but said nothing.

"Yeah, well…" Richie didn't have to finish his statement, because Joe came back from the kitchen.

"There ya go, Rich. Oh, hi Amanda."

"Joseph." She said, presenting her hand for him to kiss, which he did with flourish.

"I'm gonna go change now," Richie announced as he stood up, grabbed the bag of clothes, and headed for the bathroom.

Amanda took off her coat and hung it, along with her scarf and beret, on the coat rack against the wall.

"Early present from MacLeod?" Joe inquired, indicating the coat.

"What? This old thing?" She teased as she left it hanging to dry. She said nothing more, and Joe smiled to himself knowing that if it had been a gift, or if she had procured it legally, she would have bragged about it. "Duncan should be along shortly," she added, almost as an afterthought. "He has an errand to take care of."

Joe blinked in surprise. "How did you get here then?"

"Cab. The worst ride of my life Joseph, and that's the truth!" Amanda made her way to the bar and sat on the stool next to Richie's wet one.

"Can I get you something?" Joe asked, moving behind the bar.

"Oh, I dunno. Something light and fruity?"

"I never figured you for a lightweight, Amanda."

At that remark Amanda made a show of her 'oh how you wound me' face. "Really Joseph, I just want something to tide me over until the boys get here. They're all still coming, right?

"As far as I know," Joe answered, turning around to hand her a glass filled with something an amusing shade of pink.

Just then Richie emerged, wearing a pair of boxers and a very large sweatshirt. Amanda put her hand to her mouth to exaggerate her suppressed giggle.

"Sorry Rich," the watcher apologized. "I wanted something comfortable if I ever had to hold up here with Methos again."

This time Amanda couldn't stop the laughter. "_What?_" She half shrieked in her amusement.

"You weren't here for the freak Thanksgiving storm, Amanda," Joe said with the air of someone with a secret he wasn't about to share.

Now it was Richie's turn to suppress a giggle, more at Joe's manner than the memory of the actual event.

Amanda narrowed her gaze and stared intently at Joe. "Joseph— "

But whatever inappropriate or questioning remark Amanda was about to make was cut off by the sensation of another immortal nearby. Joe looked to Richie, whom he'd seen react to the buzz many more times than he'd seen Amanda, and his suspicions were confirmed. Just then the door swung open and was slammed just as quickly. Methos stood in the doorway dusting the sleet and snow out of his hair.

"Bloody hell!" He said as he looked up. "It'd better not do this all night!" Once he finished dusting off he hung his coat with Amanda's.

"Methos!" Amanda shrieked like an excited child as she threw herself at him and wrapped her slender arms around his neck.

Methos raised his hands to surrender posture and leaned back away from her. "I take it MacLeod's not here yet, then?"

Amanda dropped her arms, this time look of hurt on her face genuine. "I haven't seen you in six months and you won't even let me be happy to see you without—"

"Neither MacLeod is here yet," Joe informed him a smile. For everything he knew about Methos there were one hundred things he didn't know, but this was one of Methos's games that Joe was sure of. Before Amanda could recover after Joe cut her off, Methos took her in his arms and gave her a giant, sweeping kiss, dipping her backwards and leaving her weak at the knees. Richie and Joe laughed in spite of their slight envy.

Methos released her lips and brought her to standing again. For one of the very few times in her life, Amanda was speechless. Methos didn't care for conversation, however. He walked straight to the bar, where Joe handed him a beer.

"So where is everybody?" He asked, looking at his watch. He himself was ten minutes late.

"MacLeod junior is supposedly out running an errand. No word from MacLeod senior."

"Errands? In this weather?" Methos asked with only mock aghast.

"Yeah," Amanda verified, coming out of the daze and crossing to the bar. "He left a message at the airport for me when I got in. Told me he had to take care of something and wouldn't be able to pick me up. He did wire cab fare for me though."

Methos nodded and sipped his beer, wondering what could have kept the highlander from picking up his beloved at the airport, and praying that his natural paranoia wasn't warranted.

Richie, feeling awkward to be standing around in Joe's boxers and oversized sweatshirt while both Joe and then Methos played amusing tricks on Amanda, stood at the far edge of the bar, just taking it all in. His presence did not go unnoticed, however.

"And I suppose you're the reason for the lake in Joe's bar?" Methos asked him rhetorically, addressing Richie in a manner such that only those who knew him well would recognize as not unkind.

Richie merely laughed. "My bike lost an argument with a slippery hill," he explained, more embarrassed than anything else. "Had to push it all the way hear because the gas line froze while I was pushing it up said hill."

"So that's why you're wearing Joe's spare clothes," Methos concluded with much amusement. He studied Richie for a moment, then: "You know, Joseph, I don't think red is really your color."

Richie blushed almost to the color of the boxer shorts that Methos was referring to. Amanda turned purple for a few seconds as laughter caused her to choke on her drink. Joe laughed at the both of them. Then he grabbed a roll of paper towels and tossed them to Richie.

"Why don't you clean up that 'lake' you've made on my floor," he said casually.

"Right," Richie acquiesced, squatting down to address the problem.

"Alright everyone," said Methos as he downed his beer, "listen up." The others dutifully turned their gaze towards him. "Mac told me that Connor is driving up from California this evening. He knows me as Benjamin Adams, so I would appreciate it if you all would be so kind as to call me Adam Pierson tonight."

It took the others several seconds before Methos's speech sunk in.

"Awwww," Amanda whined, pouting. "But I've gotten so used to calling you Methos!" She turned her pleading puppy dog eyes on him, too, but to no avail.

"I guess you'll just have to deal with it," he said, smiling at her.

"But if you know him, can't you trust him?" Richie asked from his squatting position on the floor.

Methos glared at him with the look that impatient adults give small children, but now was not the time for a sarcastic remark. For all intents and purposes everyone knew Connor as a man Methos could trust with his identity. He didn't have the younger highlander's overdeveloped sense of honor, but he would die before he betrayed a friend. As far as this crowd was concerned he had no good reason to go by his current alias, but he came up with one anyhow. After all, it was far better than telling them the truth. He spoke very slowly, hitting every word as if it were of vital importance.

"Yes I know him. Yes I could probably trust him. However, if I tell him it will be because I _choose_, not because one of you slips your tongue."

Richie nodded in understanding.

"Whatever you say, old man," said Joe.

Methos smiled and excused himself to the public restroom. He was grateful for their understanding. What he said, like everything else, was exactly true. It just wasn't nearly the whole truth. What he chose to not say was that Connor had been Ramirez's student, and Ramirez had known Methos. As Methos. They had been drinking buddies for a time, before Ramierez got it in his head to sail for Japan, and then after, when the Egyptian had returned brokenhearted. Whether or not Ramirez shared the fact that he knew Methos with his student was uncertain, because even in the time of Connor's entrance into immortality, Methos was unquestionably the oldest living immortal. However, whether or not Connor knew of Methos wasn't the issue; it was whether or not Connor knew of _Death_. Ramirez learned of Methos's past, and of the horsemen, when he fought Kronos on Methos's behalf in an escapade that, in hindsight, reminded Methos very much of something Duncan would do.

Something Duncan _did_ do. That thought brought a sad smile to Methos's face. Kronos is dead. The horsemen will remain forever in his past, never again to threaten his present. Methos was just grateful it hadn't cost him Duncan's friendship the way it had Ramirez's. The fact that the Kurgan was one of Kronos's few students was another sad, cruel irony that Methos had long since grown accustomed to in his long life. Methos couldn't face the wrath of another Scottish temper, especially with the horsemen ordeal taking place only months before and his friendship with Duncan finally beginning to return to firmer ground. He couldn't be sure if Connor knew anything, but it was safer to let Adam Pierson, perpetual grad student, stand in for Methos the five thousand year old man for tonight's informal get-together.

Methos was drawn out of his private thoughts as the immortals felt the sensation of another wash over them. Once again the door opened wide and slammed quickly as a familiarly clad man stepped inside. His tan trench coat and white tennis shoes was soaked as he gazed upon Richie with a look that made the younger immortal seriously wonder if he would need to retrieve his sword from his bike.

"Come out to Seacouver for the holidays, you said," said Connor to Richie, his voice colder than the temperature outside. "Surprise Duncan for his birthday."

Methos heard Connor's voice from the men's room and listened intently.

"Uh, it sounded like a good idea at the time," offered Richie, still squatting on the floor where he was cleaning up the mess, and hoping that his casual tone would belie the fear Connor's voice could instill in anyone.

"You thought?" Conner half-questioned, half-stated. He reached quickly inside his trench coat and the tension in the room soared. Then he removed his hand, revealing a very expensive bottle of champagne that he'd kept hidden in the inner pocket.

"Got a place I can ice this?" He asked with a broad grin to no one in particular.

The tension in the bar let out like someone deflating a balloon. Richie was suddenly startled to hear his own breath, not realizing he had been holding it. Amanda laughed and sat down heavily on her stool, finishing her drink in one gulp. She chided herself for not realizing that a stunt like that was _just _like something the elder MacLeod would pull. Joe laughed to himself as he went fishing for an ice bucket, knowing full well that Connor would sooner take his own head then harm a hair on Richie's.

Conner put the bottle on the bar and went to hang his coat with the others. Richie finished wiping up his mess and stood. It was then Connor noticed his attire.

"Slightly underdressed for tonight, aren't we?" He asked with a wry smile.

"My bike's being uppity and I had to push it here," Richie explained yet again as he threw his used paper towels in the trash and left the roll on the bar.

"Why didn't you call a cab?" Connor asked as Joe came back with the ice bucket. He iced the champagne and handed Connor a beer.

"Ha!" Amanda exclaimed, indignant. "His way was safer!"

Joe and Richie exchanged amused glances as Connor sipped his beer. Upon tasting it he wondered exactly how the watcher knew which brand of beer he preferred.

"I take it you cabbed here tonight, Amanda sweet?"

"From the airport," Amanda said sourly.

"You mean none of these fine gentlemen offered to give you a ride?"

"Duncan was supposed to. He left a message for me saying he couldn't make it, along with cab fare."

Connor narrowed his gaze. "Did he say what he was doing?"

"Just that he had something to take care of," Amanda answered casually. She wanted it to be very clear that she wasn't at all worried about Duncan, or rather, for the sake of the elder MacLeod, that she didn't _appear_ worried.

Connor's eyes darted quickly to Joe.

"Don't look at me," said the watcher. "This was all news to us, too."

"Aren't you _paid_ to know where Duncan is?" He asked calmly, the ice returning to his voice.

"No, he's paid to run this bar," said Methos, stepping back into the bar from the public restroom. "As district manager, those paid to watch immortals report to _him_."

"Adams!" Connor exclaimed, the smile returning to his face.

"Close," said Methos. "It's Adam Pierson now." He extended his arm and Connor clasped it at the forearm in a warrior's handshake.

"What happened to Benjamin Adams? I don't suppose 'Adam Pierson' killed him?" Connor asked laughing as they dropped hands.

"Wrong again, Scot," said Methos. "Benjamin Adams disappeared because Adam Pierson is a watcher—in the research department." He added as he flashed his tattoo. He hoped that the others got the message: they weren't even to _mention_ the Methos project.

Connor cursed in Gaelic. "You're still English _and_ you've switched sides?"

"What?" Amanda asked. "You didn't know Adam bats for both teams?" Her deliciously teasing tone was met with laughter.

That is, it was met with laughter from everyone except Methos. Her remark sent his mind flashing back to the horsemen incident again. Duncan had accused him of the very same thing, albeit with drastically different meanings. Methos cursed himself as he acknowledged that tonight would not be an easy night for his memories as even sexual innuendo could trigger them. Still, he couldn't let that remark go unanswered.

"At least none of my lovers has accidentally called me by the name of their favorite sheep," he said with a level of ice in his voice to rival Connor's.

This time it was Amanda's turn to blush as Joe laughed heartily at the barb that dually stung both Amanda and the absent highlander. Connor laughed as well in spite of the fact that the remark was a pointed statement about his kin. Richie laughed softer and for not as long, envisioning his teacher accidentally calling Tessa's name in the heat of passion, which stirred up the wealth of his own painful memories.

Unfortunately for the jovial mood, this remark also returned their thoughts to their absent comrade. The weight of concern in various degrees was written on every face as all conversation momentarily stopped, but before anyone could say anything more Joe noticed all four immortals react to the presence of another. Just then the door burst open and Duncan appeared in the doorway carrying a paper bag in each arm.

"Good, you're all here," he said as he kicked the door shut with his foot. "I hope you were in the mood for Thai."


	2. Conversation

"Duncan!" Connor exclaimed, masking his relief with genuine pleasure. He strode over to the door and took the bundles from his student and moved them to the bar. Joe went into the kitchen to procure plates and utensils. The others crowded around to remove the cardboard takeout boxes and breathe in the hunger-inducing aroma.

"Glad you could make it, MacLeod," said Methos as he opened one container to investigate its contents.

Duncan removed his coat and hung it with the others. "Sorry I'm late," he said as he made his way to the food.

Amanda met him half way, wrapping her arms around him and melting her body into his, making a grand show of affection for the viewing pleasure of the others. She landed brief, playful kiss before asking:

"And just what was so important that you couldn't pick me up at the airport?"

Duncan groaned in exasperation as he moved her to arms length. Joe returned from the kitchen and he and Richie moved the food over to a nearby booth. Methos grabbed the beer and Connor, grinning, helped himself to the bottle of top-shelf scotch and two glasses.

"The carbon monoxide detector went off at the dojo," Duncan explained. "I traced the problem back to the heater."

Connor frowned. "Gas lines?"

Richie smiled at the irony.

"Looks like," Duncan confirmed. Then, turning to Amanda: "I had to wait for the gas company to show. Took all afternoon."

Amanda's face contorted to a mix of relief and displeasure. She knew Duncan would need a serious reason for him to not pick her up at the airport when he himself had invited her here. The relief was for the fact that it had nothing to do with another immortal, and the displeasure was for that she _still_ couldn't berate him for abandoning to the mercy of Seacouver cab drivers.

"The dojo isn't going to have any heat until it's fixed, and the gas company told me not to expect that before New Year's," Duncan continued with obvious displeasure.

"How much is that going to cost us?" Richie asked from the booth.

Duncan smiled. The dojo was his, and Richie was just an employee. He would in no way be tapped to foot any of the bill, but still the young man used the term 'us' as though he shared an equal weight. Duncan knew that this wasn't any attempt at staking claim to something that didn't rightfully belong to him, but was a simple expression of family. In Richie's mind, what one endured, the other must endure, and Duncan would not begrudge him that.

"A bit," Duncan admitted seriously, "since we have to replace the whole system."

Audible gasps from the peanut gallery. Methos whistled.

"So once they eventually _get_ to working on it," he said, "they won't be done for another week or so."

"Pretty much," Duncan concurred.

Richie sighed and sipped his beer. He was looking forward to spending the holidays not at his dorm. He detested the overly structuralized way he was having to live his life since his decision to return to school, and even the a sleeping bag on the floor of Duncan's apartment above the dojo (because Connor would be taking the couch whilst in town) would have been a welcome improvement. Now he was going to have to file paperwork requesting permission to stay in the dorms.

Duncan turned to address the crowd. "I'm sorry, everybody. The MacLeod Inn will be closed for the duration."

Everyone caught the anger and regret in Duncan's voice. He knew they were counting on him to put them up for the night, and he had to turn them away. So much for highland hospitality!

"That's okay. Dawson's Bed and Breakfast is now officially opened for business," Joe declared with a Cheshire-cat grin.

"You wouldn't mind?" Duncan asked hopefully.

"Of course not. You'd all do the same for me," Joe said quite seriously. Then his expression changed. "The spare room's got a double bed, and then there's the couch."

"Perfect! I'll take the couch, and Duncan and Amanda can have the guest room," Connor informed them, raising his eyebrow just slightly at Duncan in an all-telling way.

"That sounds wonderful, Joseph," said Amanda, the delight plain in her voice. There were noises of agreement from the rest as they all piled into the booth to begin their dinner.

After a time Richie spoke up. "Hey Mac, do you think you could give me lift back to the dojo to pick up my stuff?"

"Sure, Rich," said Duncan; then he paused as the oddness of Richie's attire finally struck him. The blush returned to Richie's cheeks under Duncan's questioning gaze.

"My bike couldn't make the hills in this weather. I had to push it. Then the gas line froze and I wound up pushing it all the way. My clothes were soaked through. Joe loaned me these."

Duncan laughed. "The Thanksgiving storm?"

Joe nodded and this time Methos joined in the laughter. Then Duncan suddenly remembered that Richie was also staying with him throughout the holiday season, moving residency from a sleeping bag to the couch after Connor flew back to New York.

"Richie, where are you going to stay?"

Richie looked up as he felt all eyes turn to him. "It's no big deal. I can arrange to stay in the dorm," he said, quickly averting everyone's eyes. He would never ask any of them to make a fuss over him, not when he had a fallback place to stay. It would be a lonely way to pass the holidays, but still it meant a roof.

"You could bring the sleeping bag to my place," Joe offered.

"Or you could stay on my couch." Methos spoke for the first time since the conversation changed directions. No one had expected Methos to offer his hospitality to the tune that it never even occurred to them to ask him. All eyes veered towards him in stunned silence.

Richie schooled his face into neutrality out of practice and sheer habit. "You—you wouldn't mind?" He asked, trying to sound as detached as possible.

Duncan recognized the tactic and winced on the inside. All too often he had heard Richie take that tone, especially when Tessa was alive. He never allowed his hopes to rise, especially in dealing with other people and their supposed generosity. It was one of Richie's defense mechanisms, as well honed as any Duncan had taught him with a sword. Even after all this time, Richie still had trouble putting his faith in people, even the ones he considered his friends.

Methos also recoiled inwardly under the question, although it was easy to discern why it had been asked. He and Richie had never been close, and he had never given them any reason to suspect that he was capable of such random selfless acts for anyone except perhaps Duncan. And those were all life or death situations. The simple act of opening up one's home to his friends seemed to be something that all had put past him without a second thought.

Not that he hasn't given them reason.

"It's like I said before," said Methos quietly and more to his beer bottle than anyone in particular: "_Mi casa es su casa_." He had his own reasons for inviting Richie, and even surprised himself when he heard his voice offer the invitation. Connor's visit reminded him painfully of Ramirez, and how they had parted on heated terms that were never resolved before he died. It was like what would have been had Duncan died after informing him that they were 'through' that afternoon outside of Methos's apartment.

Then Methos caught himself wondering if it truly would have been the same. Did Duncan matter more to him today than Ramirez did back then? He had once told Duncan that he was the best he'd ever seen. While Ramirez had been a good friend, Duncan was the one Methos had picked to win the game. Perhaps it was his frame of mind at the time, all those hundreds of years ago, but such a thing never crossed his mind with Ramirez. Duncan was not only his friend, but was representative of his future. To lose Duncan the way he had lost Ramirez…

No! Methos would not allow himself to think such thoughts. Duncan was alive, and their friendship had been mended (though admittedly not as strong, but Methos was working on that).

The fact of the matter was that Connor's presence reminded him of the pain of Ramirez's loss, which in turn reminded him of how close he came to losing Duncan, if not permanently then certainly as a friend. Methos felt every one of his five thousand or so years and longed for an understanding and compassionate human interaction to ease the weight of those years. He would settle for Richie sleeping on his couch watching football and Christmas specials; and Richie didn't know about the horsemen, so there wouldn't be any awkward or painful questions to answer. _Not that Richie is of the character to ask_, he thought dryly. _He is not like the highlander_.

Methos looked up at Richie expectantly, who let the relief wash through him with a grateful smile.

"Thank you so much, old man," said Richie, trying in vain not to let his relief show. "I really appreciate it."

Methos grinned. _An old man indeed_.

With the living arrangements settled the conversation turned to more traditional things. Duncan continued to mope about the dojo, talking with Richie about paid leave and adjustments to his hours. From there he endured a lecture from Connor on not investing in general upgrades gradually after buying the place so that he wouldn't have to eat the enormous cost and inconvenience right now all at once. Connor, to his credit, kept that boyish grin off his face as he knew that everyone else was thoroughly enjoying Duncan having to take what he so often dished out, probably from the only person alive who could get away with it.

Once Connor had spoken his peace, Amanda chose to claim the spotlight as everyone's center of attention. She started by complaining about how it was just like Duncan to break his entire gas system in the dead of winter when he had invited her out for the holidays. That lead to her mock-regretful speech about how she couldn't convince all of them to winter on the southern coast of Spain with her and then the immortals found themselves trading stories and anecdotes about the country. Even Richie had been there.

Joe sat back and listened, trying to decide which of his emotions were strongest. He was taking mental notes of the conversation with the skilled precision of one who has done this so many times before. Every so often he should make a show of going to the restroom or getting more drinks from the bar, but secretly it was designed so he could jot down the casually revealed aspects of the immortals' pasts with the clear detachment of a scholar. If the chronicles had the information already written so be it, but if not, and especially if his added information could be corroborated, then for a fleeting instant he would feel as though his double life had meaning.

Watcher and friend, not an easy gap to bridge, and Joe Dawson finally believed that he had done it. He was their friend _first_, his actions and emotions declaring that loud and clear before he ever let his thoughts dwell on it. He remembered the incredible sinking, hollow feeling in his gut when Duncan saw him and Horton together on the boat, just when a friendship had started to form between them. He remembered the consuming pain when Duncan had severed ties after Charlie's death; a death, Joe thought bitterly, that he had every power to prevent. Then there was the crushing blow of thinking that Killion had killed him before they had the chance to patch things up to spite Amanda's best efforts, and then the pure elation he forced himself to conceal when Killion's watcher told him that Duncan was still alive. Then there's the time he asked Duncan's help to avenge his girlfriend's murder without thinking of the ramifications, and when Duncan stopped him from committing premeditated murder to protect the secret of the immortals; only later to watch helplessly from the ground as the Kallas's quickening raged on the Eiffel Tower, not being able to tell who killed who. And, of course, there was the dark quickening. Shooting Duncan to save Richie, effectively interrupting a challenge, was the most direct interference in the game he had ever ventured forth. He hadn't even realized he had done it until he heard the shots ring out.

Later on, he nearly paid the price for his interference at the watcher tribunal. He was ready to take a bullet, even wanted it to happen, because it meant that he had chosen the way of friendship, no matter what cost to himself had been. He knew that Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod had—_had_ to understand and appreciate that gesture for what it was.

Joe smiled the easy smile of a man who has finally figured out his place in life. If it came right down to it, he'd do it all over again without hesitation, but he knew it never would. Duncan had protested vehemently the last time Joe tried to leave the organization, saying that the lives of the immortals should be recorded by people who _feel_ and not just by detached historians, and Joe wound up going right back to them. Plus the watchers had finally stopped caring about his bending of a rule here and there, opting instead to turn the other cheek. After all, their first priority was recording the lives and truths of immortals, and what better way to get to know someone than through casual dinner conversation? He would be their friend, first and always, but he would still play the mindful observer in times like these, adding depth to the chronicles of his friends and those whose histories were intertwined with them. Hearing Duncan and Amanda wistfully reminiscing about one of Amada's theft schemes that involved a fairytale-esque rescue with an amusing side anecdote wherein Duncan masquerades as a matador was a precise example of everything Joe had finally decided he believed in as he excused himself to the men's room and the small notebook he kept hidden there for these occasions.

He returned in time to catch the shift in the conversation. When Connor reminisced about Spain, it wasn't his own memories he was reliving. He spoke softly, slowly, feeling the words as if they were precious gems, refracting some inner truth. Ramirez's identity had been Spaniard when he met Connor and showed him the ropes of immortality, and Ramirez's quickening was now happily swimming inside Connor's own head. The stories he had told around the dinner table in Connor's highland home with Heather now given the same color of remembrance that they had back then. He spoke of tiny peasant villages, and of when Ramirez had decided to love a widow for a time, not the same love he had felt in Japan, but a temporary love designed to make each day more bearable. His voice was reminiscent, seeming a slightly bizarre combination of highland brogue and French lilt, as he told of their daily routine and of peasant life in Spain, circa 1500. When she finally died Ramirez had traveled onward, catching a boat for England and brighter days.

The story ended and Connor looked down into his food, now cold from sitting too long. His mind was lost in the sea of memories, his own of Ramirez, and those of Ramirez himself swimming just below the surface and out of reach before they retreated back into the ether and were lost completely.

Joe looked at the faces of the immortals during and after this tale. Each sat transfixed for different reasons. Joe, being a well trained watcher, accurately guessed each immortal's thoughts as Connor droned on. Different breeds of pain were reflected in each set of eyes: loss, regret, memory, realization. This time he just listened 'possible romantic involvement in Spain' the only note he would dare make in the appropriate dates in Ramirez's long-closed chronicle from the entire story. The world should know that he loved her but wasn't entitled to anything more.

Richie had listened silently, too moved by the words to speak afterwards. The weight of immortality was an oppressive thing, and it was moments like these that made him realize just how oppressive it could get with the weight of long years stacked on top of it. To live forever: every young man's dream. Now that he had the chance, it took on an entirely different meaning. Hearing the immortals reminisce about their long lives was enough to depress anyone, especially a young man who at times perceives that pain and loss are the only highlights he has to look forward to.

Amanda also sat in silence, drifting back to her own memories. She too had loved for an all-too-brief time in Spain, some time before that. Still, the descriptions of the villages and people brought back emotions long since buried. She forced them back under with a few swigs of her drink. There were some things she was resolved to never mention, not even to Duncan, and her love affairs with mortals were among them. They were just too painful.

Duncan, on the other hand, felt the pain in every word of Connor's tale. His thoughts immediately drifted back to Tessa, and to Little Dear, and every other mortal woman that had been untimely ripped from him. He wondered what it was like to lose a love to the ravages of time, as Connor described Ramirez had… As Connor himself had. Duncan wondered how much of the emotion was a channeling of Ramirez and how much was simply relation due to his own experience with Heather.

Methos was the only one Joe couldn't peg, partially because so little was known of the Methos Chronicle, but mostly because the old man's emotions were just too hard to read. He didn't know Methos too felt the pain in Connor's voice, but for different reasons. Sure his mind settled briefly on the face of every mortal lover he has buried—Alexa and those before her, but then he was reminded, perhaps in the way Connor described the Spanish hills, even more painfully of his loss of Ramirez. He mentally cursed Kronos and the horsemen in a long-dead language, and he even cursed himself. Listening to Connor relate a portion of Ramirez's life was pure agony, agony that nearly surpassed that which he felt when he heard Duncan shout to Cassandra that he wanted him to live, but this agony would not bring catharsis. There would be no cleansing of the spirit or mending of friendship in any way. Ramirez was dead, and his ghost had come back to torture Methos in a very private way.

His thoughts then wandered to a place he had forbade them to go, and choking down the wave of nausea he quietly excused himself to the men's room just as Connor was finishing his tale. He suddenly thought of Richie, avenging Duncan's death, and later relating a story about the highlands and Deborah Campbell the way Connor had channeled Ramirez. He gripped the sides of the freestanding sink for support, musing about how even Alexa's death had not been so painful, or would not haunt him for this long. But Ramirez's death had been connected to the horsemen, and anything and everything connected to the horsemen would haunt him until his head detached from his shoulders. Now his brothers were dead, they could no longer threaten him or his friends, and most importantly they hadn't cost him MacLeod. Methos felt his strength return as he stood up straighter with the realization. He splashed cold water on his face to return his coloring to normal and banished those thoughts and emotions from whence they came. Methos left the men's room silently vowing that he would _not_ lose Duncan MacLeod, not to the horsemen, not ever.

When Methos sat down again he discovered that the conversation had mercifully shifted its focus to Richie. Joe had decided that it was time to talk about less heavy-handed things. He asked him how his first semester went.

"Pretty well," Richie answered, not trying too hard to hide his pride.

"Ah yes," said Connor, "Duncan told me you finally enrolled in college."

Richie blushed. "Yeah, at Rainier."

"I see. How did you manage that—logistically I mean?" Connor caught himself just in time. Then, to clarify even further: "The last time I checked, Richie, you didn't have a diploma, and all of your records are quite a few years out of date. Not to mention the fact that family history is rather important for college admission."

Joe, Methos, and Richie all laughed, but Duncan and Amanda just smiled proudly, Connor thought, the way that parents often do.

"I got my GED a few years back, right after Tessa died. She always chided me about not finishing school," Richie admitted in a matter of fact tone that carefully hid all emotion. Duncan smiled sadly as he remembered the arguments the two would have on that subject.

"I helped him change the information," Joe explained, smiling.

"Ah." Connor returned the boyish grin. "Why am I not surprised?"

"It probably would have been easier if he let me help him," said Duncan, "but he had this silly notion to keep his application a secret until he got in."

"Let me guess," said Amanda sweetly, "couldn't have lived with yourself if he got our hopes up for nothing?"

"Something like that," said Richie. This time they all laughed.

"But what did you do about the personal information?" Connor asked.

"Ah, now that took a bit of fancy footwork," said Joe, smiling brightly. "The DSS isn't a terribly difficult place to hack, especially into what they consider 'cold files.'"

"Files of kids the department hasn't assigned a social worker to keep tabs on for a while," Methos added.

"So I, uh, removed his entire record from their files."

"You didn't!"

"Sure did," said Methos. "As far as the DSS is concerned, Richard Ryan never existed."

"I'm impressed," Connor declared, nodding his appreciation of the task.

"It gets better," said Duncan, no longer able to keep out of the discussion. All attention turned to him. "We gave his records to the French government."

"You _gave_ them?"

"Yup," said Richie, wanting to be a bigger part of this tale. "According to L' Hopital de Saint Dennis in downtown—er, where was it again?"

"Lyon," Methos supplied.

"Right. According to the hospital in Lyon, I am the poor son of an unwed, teenage mother who abandoned me to the mercy of the doctors and disappeared without a trace."

"Sad story," said Connor, laughing the slight laugh of one whose heart isn't in it. That could very well be the story of all immortals.

"But it has a happy ending," said Richie. "After living as a ward of state, or whatever the French call it, I was officially adopted at age fifteen."

Amanda smiled. She hadn't bothered asking Richie how he managed to 'legally' enter college. She mused that it must have been harder than changing identities.

"This is the good part," said Methos, smiling mischievously.

"He was officially adopted by a French national named Tessa Noel, so he moved into her barge where they, and the live-in boyfriend of twelve years, tried to make a home." Duncan finished the tale, giving only a slight highlight of his legal position as 'live-in boyfriend.'

"This just keeps getting better and better!" Connor exclaimed, laughing outright now.

"Wait," said Richie. "Just before I turn sixteen we move back to the states into a quaint little antique store."

Connor stopped laughing abruptly, casting a glance at Duncan, who then continued the story.

"When Tessa died, I became Richie's legal guardian. He was sixteen, and somehow convinced me that he didn't need to finish high school, instead opting for his GED. That was the winter of 1993."

Connor sat back, his suspicions verified. Tessa adopted Richie, and when she died Duncan became his legal guardian. From what Connor knew of Tessa, he was sure that she would approve.

"So I worked for a few years for my, uh—for Duncan at the dojo, since we sold the antique shop upon Tessa's death." The word went unsaid, but everyone knew what it was. Everyone also knew that, even though the false documents now state the fact plainly, Duncan had felt that way for a long time now. Richie was as close to a son that Duncan would ever have, and as far as Richie is concerned, Duncan and Tessa are the closest he's ever come to having real parents.

"And then you decided that a blue-collar life wasn't for you and applied to University?" Connor asked, smiling once again to lighten the mood.

"Something like that," said Richie, also smiling. "I applied when I was nineteen, took the SAT and everything. Got accepted to Rainier and that's where I'm going. I turned twenty in September."

"So basically you just legalized everything that actually happened, leaving out your living with Duncan before they relocated to Paris and that little bit about breaking into his store, and adjusted your age back two years to make it more believable," Amanda rattled off. She also approved of their efforts, and of the results thus far.

"Pretty much," said Richie. "Richard Noel Ryan has just completed his first semester of college."

"That's wonderful, Richard!" Amanda declared. "I'm proud of you."

Richie just blushed and averted her gaze.

"Is poppa footing the bill for this?" Connor asked Duncan jokingly. It should have been an obvious yes.

"I offered," said Duncan, "but he flat-out refused."

"What?"

"Turning down free money?" Amanda was shocked.

This time Richie looked up, and there was a definite pride in his eyes. "I want to do this on my own," he said.

"But it's so expensive," Amanda stated, still aghast.

"I know," said Richie heavily.

"Are you taking out student loans?" Connor asked.

"I was planning on it, but I didn't have to this year. Apparently having a legal guardian under the French system means that he or she is in no way obligated to provide financial support after the child reaches the age of majority, or some other legal mumbo-jumbo like that."

"So Duncan's off the hook then?"

"Much to his displeasure," said Methos teasingly. Duncan gave him a mock-annoyed glare for his trouble.

"Rainier wound up giving me considerable financial aid. It's almost cheaper than some state schools."

"Not bad," Connor appraised.

"Yeah. And the rest, for this year anyway, is covered by scholarships." Richie said, again glowing with pride.

"It turns out the perpetual grad student over here pointed Richie in the direction of some independently funded scholarships and grants," said Joe, indicating Methos.

"Not bad at all," said Amanda.

"What kind of independent scholarships?" Connor asked, sneaking sidelong glances at the others, who deftly avoided his gaze, all without telegraphing anything to Richie.

"Uh, the American Bartenders' Association—"

"I recommended him for that one," Joe interrupted. "A bunch of bartenders in the union donate money to give scholarships to people who want to go back to school after entering the workforce."

"I see," said Connor, not believing a word of it. And he was right. Methos fronted the money for the dummy scholarship in return for Joe wiping out his entire bar bill. Joe had gladly agreed since the scholarship money was no doubt much higher than Methos's actual tab.

"The other one's from the Brighton Bay society. I have no idea who they are, but apparently they give away lots of money each year to various causes. I just had to submit a request with all my reasons for needing the money and they approved me for a grant." Richie explained, shrugging sheepishly.

"Brighton Bay huh?" Connor mused. Then, shifting his gaze sharply to Duncan: "I've heard of them."

Duncan quickly reached for a takeout box and served himself another helping so that he wouldn't have to look up. "I told you about them about a hundred years ago," he said. "They're great philanthropists."

"I bet," said Connor, doing his best not to laugh. Brighton Bay Antiques was the name of the store Connor owned at the turn of the century in England. Due to societal circumstances Connor was forced to fake his own death and entrusted the running of his store to Duncan. It was how Duncan got his start in the antique business.

Richie sat, smiling and proud and completely unaware that his immortal friends simply refused to take no for an answer to their offer to help him financially. Amanda also sat quietly, apparently enraptured by the story. To her credit she didn't give the secret away, but she knew that the money wasn't coming from independent organizations. She smiled to herself, thinking that Richie was the perfect good cause to rationalize her thieving ways. She would fence the goods, or auction them depending on how long they had been in her collection, and point Richie in the direction of some lesser known art society scholarships…

Amanda's thoughts returned to the conversation as Joe was updating everyone about the state of the game and the current affairs of the watchers. This part of the conversation was more like a debriefing, the older immortals paying close attention.

Methos took the opportunity to excuse himself for a drink, leaving his beer only half finished. Richie, not really paying attention to the affairs of people he'd never even heard of, was the only one to notice how odd it was for Methos to leave an unfinished beer and head to the bar. Something about the old man had been off tonight, Richie was certain of that. He had the same avoidance and defense tactics that he himself employed, but was a good five thousand years ahead of him in skill. Still, Richie was at least able to recognize that there was something bothering Methos, and if Richie's intuition was correct, it had something to do with his past, and ergo possibly to do with Connor himself. However, Richie knew better than to ever ask anything of or about Methos because even if he got an answer he couldn't be certain it was the truth.

Richie concluded that he wasn't enjoying the present conversation and decided to clear the table. He collected the takeout boxes and brought them over to the bar. Methos was standing behind the bar examining the glass he had just poured himself. Richie was surprised (well, maybe not all that surprised) to see that it was simply a different kind of beer. He began disposing of what wouldn't keep and transferring what would into disposable Tupperware containers that he grabbed from a shelf in the kitchen. Pretty soon his curiosity got the best of him.

"What was wrong with your other beer?" He asked Methos.

Methos looked up suddenly and regarded Richie with confusion. He blinked once and the fog abated. "Wrong?" He asked, slightly confused for only partially hearing Richie's question.

"You didn't finish your other beer. It was your third bottle so I'm assuming there wasn't anything seriously wrong with it. Now you're over here drinking a different beer that you pulled from the tap. What gives?"

Methos sighed soundlessly. The kid was observant. He felt anger surge momentarily for his reverie being broken, but it went away just as quickly. After all, doing something like not finishing a beer was an obvious telegraph to anyone that there was something 'up' with him. He laughed at how predictable he'd become on certain things. Then he turned to Richie, who was still expecting an answer to spite his apparent nonchalance as he finished putting the takeout into the disposable Tupperware containers. Methos briefly contemplated telling him that it was none of his damn business (which it wasn't), but then thought the better of it. He didn't want to create added tension between them if Richie would be living off his couch for a while.

"I'm a watcher, remember? I've heard it all before," he said, referring to the present conversation. He was hoping Richie would just accept this as his reason for leaving the table, but somehow he doubted it.

"I know what you mean. I'm only doing this because I don't know who they're talking about," said Richie, referring to his affair with the dishes. He then went back to the table to clear the rest of them. Methos allowed his hopes to rise that Richie wouldn't press the issue. "Immortals, watchers, the game, the gathering. Makes no difference to me any which way what they say," Richie added, returning to the bar to scrape the large remains of food into the garbage.

"What do you mean, it doesn't make a difference to you?" Methos asked, glad for the change of topic. "You're a part of the game. The gathering affects us all."

Richie shrugged half-heartedly. "I know that. It's just, well, every single immortal and watcher that I give a damn about is sitting in this bar right now, momentarily safe from the gathering for their numbers if nothing else," he explained as he continued to clean.

Methos smiled and shook his head; how well Richie understood the way of things. "I see your point," he conceded. "But if you want to stand a fighting chance, you should take advantage of all information provided about your enemies."

"Possible enemies," Richie amended without pause. "Every immortal outside this bar is a possible enemy. That goes for their watchers too."

Methos smiled, the reasoning sounding a lot like his own. The watcher remark might lean a little towards the paranoid, but in Richie's experience the only watcher who hadn't tried to have Duncan killed was Joe Dawson.

"But why pass up the chance to learn all you can about them? Know your enemy, Ryan. Knowledge can serve you better than your sword," Methos said heavily.

"Serve me where? _The gathering_?" Richie asked incredulously. "Come on, old man. You of all people should realize that I'm not, nor will I ever, be a serious contender for the prize. I was born too late, you know? The world has grown too small. Five'll get you ten I won't live to see a hundred, even _if_ the gathering takes that long." Richie sighed and nodded his head towards the booth. "Mac and Connor are the real contenders here. They're who I'm rooting for anyway. Me? All I have to do is work on not being used against them and staying the fuck out of their way, and maybe I'll get to have a little fun in the meantime."

Richie finished his statement with a grin, but Methos could tell there was nothing behind it. Richie didn't hold any illusions, everything he said had been mostly correct. He would have to make up some serious training time if he were to stand a fighting chance in the game, but Methos could tell that he'd already written himself off. It's not that Methos had picked him as a contender in the game, or even to live to see a hundred with the pace of the gathering as of late, but hearing Richie state it plainly and with such resignation was enough to make even Methos's stomach turn. In truth it's why Richie went back to school, and why he always made certain to spend as much time with his friends as possible. Richie saw his days as numbered, an immortal hounded by the weight of his own brand of mortality. He didn't want to lament any regrets in the split second between the realization that he's lost a challenge and the instant his head is separated from his shoulders.

When Richie got up to put the dishes in the industrial dishwasher Methos was left alone with his own morbid thoughts. After all, even though he had long since given up all desire for the prize, he hasn't yet given up the spark to fight for his own survival, and the current juxtaposition of those two philosophies provided momentary amusement. His reason for surviving had grown beyond selfish desire, however. He now had a purpose to his life, a reason to want to crawl out of bed in the morning, and it was sitting in the booth laughing at some joke or anecdote told by one of his good friends.

Richie was right in that both MacLeods were serious contenders for the prize. However, what Richie failed to see was that Connor didn't have the fire to claim it. He would fight, go through the motions, and probably last a good long while after this, but he wouldn't try to win the game. He would back Duncan when it came down to it, putting his faith in his clansman like so many others had done. Darius, Rebecca, Mei Ling Shen, Cierdwyn, Gærath (or Graham Ashe as he was known to Duncan), and now Methos. Cassandra realized a prophecy about a highland child that waited nearly twenty-five hundred years to come true. She was still a slave then and Methos hadn't paid much attention, already being too cynical to believe in Cassandra's abilities.

However, others did believe it. The Kurgan thought that Connor was _the highlander_ as Cassandra had put it, and so did Ramirez. Roland Kantos went so far as to try and kill Duncan when he was a boy, Felicia Martins went searching for his head, Grayson had been afraid of facing him, and even Kalas gave the highlander his endorsement with his final words: 'stay noble.' Fitzcairn had accused him once of having enemies on every continent, how very true that statement really is.

Methos only saw one snare in his plans for Duncan MacLeod: Richie Ryan. For all intents and purposes the kid was the highlander's son. He cringed to think what would happen if some immortal suddenly killed the beloved student. Methos realized that in order for Duncan to survive, Richie must also survive. Therefore Richie needs to take a more active interest in his own survival, and Methos decided that this holiday break was a good place to start thumping some sense into the boy.

Duncan was known for being fiercely loyal, and for invoking that trait in those around him. Unfortunately he is often times too emotional to think rationally. While this overblown sense of honor and justice is a good portion of the reason the immortal community feels that he is the best candidate to win the prize, it still proves to be his biggest liability. Methos wished he had more of a survivalist mentality, but at the same time knew that he shouldn't change that 'boy scout' aspect of his personality too much. Methos resolved that he just needed guidance, and that's what he was there to provide in his own unique way. He smiled through gritted teeth, realizing how long the list of complications to his ultimate goal truly is.

Richie returned from the kitchen and served himself a beer. Methos had all but forgotten the opening to their previous conversation when Richie said:

"You still haven't told me why you suddenly decided to switch beers."

Methos mentally cursed. The realization of the combined weight of the past and of his newfound responsibility made it difficult for him to have any fun at this get together. Right now he was not in the mood to dance around the issue again, so he settled for the truth.

"Oh, right. I just felt like something different. That's all."

"Any particular reason?" Richie asked. He removed the champagne for the ice bucket and was searching for flutes. Methos walked around the bar to the cabinet where such shaped glasses were kept and handed a few to Richie, saying:

"I decided I was in the mood for _real_ beer, not that cheap stuff you Americans drink."

"I see," said Richie, not quite believing the lie as he gathered the flutes in his hands while Methos picked up the champagne bottle.

"You're well traveled, learn to have some standards," said Methos in an amused yet chiding tone. Richie laughed as they headed back to the booth. Both were relieved that the conversation had switched back to storytelling.

"Who's ready for dessert?" Richie asked, setting a flute in front of each person.

"Great idea, Richie," said Duncan, taking the bottle from Methos and peeling back the foil surrounding the cork. He stood slightly in the booth to get better leverage to open the bottle as Richie sat down. With a devilish grin he eyed Connor, who was just lucky enough to be sitting across from him. He loosed the cork and it went flying across the table, hitting Connor squarely on the chin with a loud pop-crack sound. Connor's head snapped back from the force of the blow. "Oops," said Duncan innocently as the others roared with laughter. "Sorry Connor."

Connor groaned and emitted a long string of Gaelic curses as he rolled his head forward to look at Duncan. He had the makings of a nasty bruise on his chin. After a few seconds it rippled slightly under his skin as Connor's quickening began to repair the damage done below the surface. The discoloring faded a second or so after that, leaving no trace of the injury that had just occurred. By now the laugher had dulled and all eyes were settled on Connor expectantly. He stared levelly at Duncan for a moment before speaking.

"It's alright, Duncan. I'm _sure_ that was just an accident."

"Of _course_," said Duncan, matching his tone with the smile still lingering in his eyes.

"Of course," Connor echoed with acceptance. Just then Duncan howled with pain and threw himself out of the booth. Everyone was stunned to see a boot knife sticking out of Duncan's right shin just below the kneecap. "So was that."

The laughter returned, louder this time if possible. Duncan sat on the floor chiding himself for not watching where Connor's hands had been. With an over-exaggerated grimace he pulled the knife out, nearly three of the blade's five inches covered in blood.

"You can wash it off too, while you're up," said Connor matter-of-factly.

The others hadn't stopped laughing. Duncan briefly considered hurling the knife into Connor's chest, after all, it was _his_ knife, but the fact that Joe was sitting next to him stopped him before he took aim. He hadn't been that errant in knife-throwing in longer than he could remember (well, no, that wasn't exactly true, but _that_ humiliating event took place hundreds of years ago!), but he wasn't about to stake Joe's life on his skill over a simple trading of injuries between friends. He too muttered something in a foreign tongue under his breath and went over to the sink to wash his blood off the knife. He dried it on his pants and he walked back to the booth.

"Here," he said, handing Connor the knife hilt-first.

"Thank you," said Connor as he re-sheathed the knife in his boot. By now the laugher had truly subsided, but each was still smiling genuinely at the games immortals could get away with. Amanda then took it upon herself to pour the champagne. There was just enough for everyone to have one glass.

"Dom Perignon '85. Connor, you have taste," she appraised as she placed the now empty bottle on the booth beside her. Connor nodded in acquiescence.

"What shall we drink to?" Joe asked.

"Why don't we let Mac make the toast," offered Richie. "After all, I'm assuming the champagne is in honor of his birthday."

Duncan shot Richie an evil look.

"You would be correct," said Connor, smiling triumphantly at his kinsman.

"Yes, MacLeod. Do offer us some traditional holiday cheer," Methos encouraged in that friendly-yet-sarcastic tone of his.

Duncan, seeing no easy way out of this situation and not really wanting to argue the point (especially after just removing one of Connor's many concealed projectiles from his leg), he grit his teeth and stood, overplaying his discomfort at having to make the toast. In all honesty Duncan didn't mind performing such traditional social acts, especially among close friends. What he _did_ mind was that he had been volunteered.

Duncan racked his brain for a few moments for an appropriate blessing for the occasion. Quickly settling on a standard, obligatory toast he'd heard used frequently at reserved upper class dinner parties in the late nineteenth century and knowing full well that Connor, Methos, and even Amanda would recognize the 'I don't want to be here, I don't want to do this, but I'm gonna smile and pretend I like you' undercurrent of meaning in his chosen saying. Grinning slightly, he raised his glass. The others followed suit.

He'd chosen the wrong stuffy, reserved, toast to offer.

"To absent friends," said Duncan, carrying out the stuffy and reserved routine perfectly. Everyone was about to repeat the toast per custom as they brought their glasses towards clinking. Unfortunately, it was the wrong toast to offer. Richie barely missed a beat, saying, before anyone else could speak:

"And dead relatives."

Laughter roared around the table once more. Champagne was slightly spilled from a few glasses as their owners hurried to put them down, fearing to spill more of their contents as they couldn't contain their hysterical fits of laughter.

"Joe, tell me quickly which one of Duncan's acquaintances is noticeably absent!" Connor was barely able to choke out the words.

"But it didn't taste like meatloaf!" Amanda answered, also barely able to talk through her laughter.

"Doesn't your band have a saxophone player?" Methos asked Joe with mock seriousness. This caused everyone's laughter to redouble in intensity. If it were possible for the laughter to intensify again, it did so after Joe's response.

"Well that's a rather tender subject," he said, matching Methos's seriousness. The laughter continued for nearly a minute afterwards, no one being able to speak coherently.

It was then that they noticed Duncan still standing, a look of utter bewilderment and confusion hanging on his face. He was still holding his champagne glass. Amanda looked around and forced herself to stop laughing.

"Hrmm," she said, feigning wonder. "Richie gets it, Adam gets it, Joe gets it, Connor gets it, even _I_ get it…"

More laughter. Duncan sat down. The fact that he had missed some massive joke that the others shared was quite painfully obvious. The fact that it was at his expense was now dawning on him.

"I missed something, didn't I?" He asked, though already knowing the answer.

"Only the secret to life itself," said Richie, overacting and throwing in gesture for good measure. Once again the laughter renewed.

Methos sighed. "Let's not be too hard on him." He then draped his arm around Duncan. "After all, he's obviously still a virgin."

Even more laughter, although this time mostly at Duncan's facial expression than the actual joke. Silently Richie wondered if it were possible for an immortal to die from laughing too hard.

Joe decided that his poor friend had endured enough. "It means you've never seen _The_ _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ live," he explained to Duncan.

"The musical?" Duncan asked, finally finding his voice after Methos's prior comment.

"No, the A&E Biography—of course the musical!" Methos said sarcastically.

"If that's what you'd call it," said Connor grinning.

"True," Methos admitted.

"No, I haven't seen it," Duncan admitted, aware now of the source of the inside jokes but still missing their relevance.

Richie picked up on this. "It was your toast Mac, they use it in the movie."

"I thought it was a musical?"

"They filmed a movie version," said Methos, annoyed at how slow Duncan was on the uptake.

"So he's never seen it," said Amanda.

"Buddy, you don't know what you're missing," said Joe.

"Obviously," said Duncan, slight sarcasm showing through.

"We'll have to correct that oversight," Amanda purred, curling her fingers around Duncan's ponytail and relishing the joys of being squashed three and three into one of Joe's booths.

"You'll have to see it in New York," Connor said.

"Harvard Square is better," said Methos. "New York doesn't do all the callbacks."

"Callbacks?" Duncan asked.

"Things the audience shouts at the screen during the show," Richie explained. "Like what I said after you made the toast."

Duncan found that rather hard to believe. "People actually shout at the screen?"

"It's the best part," said Joe. "Well, one of them…" he added cryptically.

"You know, they screen it once a month over in Olympia," Richie informed them.

"Do they now?" Methos mused.

"That's right, they do," Joe corroborated.

"We'll all have to go see it then," Connor declared, grinning that mischievous, boyish grin.

"Agreed," said Amanda definitively.

"Great!" Richie exclaimed. "I shudder with anticip—"

"Richie!" Methos, Connor, and Joe shouted simultaneously.

"What?" Richie shrugged amusedly.

"I look forward to it," Duncan said uneasily. He knew there was no way out of whatever it was they had planned.


	3. Beer

The conversation returned to more traditional things as each indulged their own form of alcoholism. The two MacLeods enjoyed their scotch while Joe, Methos, and Richie polished off beer after beer. Amanda would return from the bar with the next round of beers for the men while she would have for herself many incarnations of mixed drinks, some harsh, some mild.

"What is that latest concoction you've fixed yourself now?" Duncan asked, eyeing the reddish-pink liquid in her glass suspiciously.

"What this?" Amanda returned innocently. "Just something I grew fond of that summer I spent on the Vineyard."

"When was that, again? Sometime early this century?" Joe asked, trying to remember her chronicle.

"Not bad, Joseph," said Amanda, impressed. "Actually it was most early spring to late fall, 1933."

"Good memory," Connor appraised.

"Let's just say I had something special to remember," Amanda informed them.

"Man, there are days I can't remember what I had for breakfast in the morning," Richie bemoaned.

"That's because you don't eat breakfast," Duncan reminded him.

"Sure I do," Richie corrected. "It's the best meal that Rainier serves."

"Now that is a sad prospect indeed," Connor informed them.

"Well it's true," Richie insisted.

"You still haven't told us what's in your drink, Amanda," Joe reminded them all.

"You're the bartender here, can't you figure it out?" Amanda teased.

"I have my guesses, but I have no way of being certain what you mixed it with," he said.

"It looks like a cosmopolitan," Duncan offered.

"Close," said Amanda.

"It's a Cape Codder," said Methos, grinning.

"Give the old man a prize!" Amanda declared, raising her glass.

"A what?" Richie asked a heartbeat later.

"A gift given in return for guessing correctly," said Connor slightly mocking.

"Very funny. What's in that thing?" Richie pointed to Amanda's drink.

"Just cranberry juice and vodka, with a twist of lime for effect," Amanda informed them, holding it at eye level so they all could see into the glass like it were some sort of crystal ball.

"Never heard of it," said Connor dismissively.

"That's because you spend all your time drinking scotch," Methos pointed out. Connor didn't refute the point.

"I've never heard of it either," said Richie.

"That's because you've only been legal for a year, Richie," Duncan reminded him, a hint of warning in his voice.

"Aw, c'mon Mac," Richie protested, "how old were you when you had your first beer?"

"Ale," Connor correctly sharply.

"Right, ale, whatever," Richie acquiesced dismissively. "I know you aren't going to tell me it was after you reached legal age."

"There was no legal age in those days, Rich. We were served if we could see over the bar and pay for what we ordered," said Duncan matter-of-factly.

"And you're telling me that you waited until you were old enough?" Richie asked with an air of disbelief. In truth if Duncan had told him he hadn't touched a drop until 1853 Richie probably would have believed him. He just wanted to see where pressuring his former teacher would lead. Joe sat back and listened intently, thinking that this could add perfect color to Duncan's chronicle since not much is known about immortals before their first death with very few exceptions.

"I don't exactly remember how old I was. I just knew that no one had any problems with it."

"Bullshit," said Connor. "You were about twelve and an undisclosed number of you snuck into the tavern through the 'hidden' back door."

Duncan nearly spit out his beer, causing everyone else to laugh. "How'd you know?"

Connor smiled and laughed that staccato laugh. "We all try it around the same age, Duncan. Old enough to be told to keep an eye on the wee ones, but not old enough to be considered a man."

"So you did it to feel older," Joe concluded.

"Mostly," admitted Connor.

"Just like the rest of us," said Richie, grinning triumphantly at Duncan.

"Not so fast," Duncan negated steadily, trying to save face. "It wasn't illegal back then. The worst possible consequence would be facing my father's belt for a few quick lashings. No one else would have made a big deal of it."

"Oh." Richie's voice suddenly grew quiet. "I can relate to that."

"What do you mean, relate?" Amanda asked him, suspicion in her voice, and Richie instantly regretted the statement.

"It's nothing, really. Nothing new anyway."

"Well if it's nothing then you won't mind sharing," said Duncan, making a bid to trap the young immortal with his own words. It wasn't done with malicious intent, by any means. It was more along the lines of a paternal need to know.

Richie sighed. In he decided that this story was a safe one to tell, given the range of severity of the others still unrevealed.

"I guess I was thirteen," he began. "My latest foster parents were alcoholics. He drank more than she did. The downstairs was always littered with empty beer cans. Place reeked like the morning after a frat party." Richie looked up to see the look on Duncan's face. "What? They there were two of them, holding steady jobs, no criminal record. Golden opportunity for the state to unload one of its charges." Pause. "They passed the rudimentary background check anyway."

Amanda was disgusted. "Must have been _very_ rudimentary."

"Yeah well, like I said, the state wasn't exactly screening heavily. They had jobs and no record, so what could go wrong? At least, what could look wrong on paper?"

"Legally how could they have known," Connor concluded.

"Exactly," said Richie. "So anyway, there was always lots of beer in the house. It didn't take me long to figure out that they wouldn't miss a few if I, ah, liberated them to my room. Boy, was I wrong."

"He caught you?" Duncan asked.

"Yeah. I'd had, I dunno, maybe two beers. Two and a half I think. I wasn't feeling too good. I was half passed out on my bed when he came storming into the room, drunk off his ass and mad as hell. He called me an ingrate, and a thief, and a few other choice names I won't repeat." Another pause, Richie collected himself, knowing he wouldn't get away with not continuing with the tale. "He pulled me up by my shirt. I honestly don't remember what he said. The whole room was spinning. I do remember that he got real mad when I threw up on him."

Methos choked back a laugh. Richie smiled at the memory, his only revenge for his treatment. Then he continued,

"He was so loud, he woke _her_ up. I—I remember she stumbled into the room wearing a large tee shirt and worst case of bed-head I'd ever seen. He told her—" Richie faltered, the memory obviously still painful for him. "He told her that nothing was going on and that she should go back to bed. And… she went. She mumbled something incoherent, nodded her head, and walked back across the hall to their bedroom and shut the door." There was anger in Richie's voice now, and it was reflected on everyone's face as Richie finished his story.

"I think I might have passed out, soon after that. I remember, you know, one minute seeing her leave, and the next I was on the floor against the wall. For the life of me I don't know if he threw me or if he let go of my shirt and I fell down." Another pause, halting, as if he didn't know how to proceed. "I remember everything was hazy. I think I hit my head against the wall, or maybe it was the alcohol. I saw him take off his belt before I passed out." Richie looked away, carefully avoiding making eye contact.

It didn't appear as though the story was going to continue. Everyone else was waiting patiently, not wanting to rush Richie or pressure him into telling anything that he wasn't ready to reveal. His life before meeting Duncan is still something he guards very closely. Duncan gritted his teeth and half smiled, musing that getting Richie to open up was sometimes harder than with Methos. Still, he needed to hear how the story ended, his emotions torn between his desires to protect Richie and to make the foster father pay dearly for everything he had done.

"What happened after you passed out," Duncan asked, concern mixing with urgency in his voice.

Richie inhaled deeply before continuing. "I'm not exactly sure. I woke up the next afternoon. My clothes were changed and I was tucked into my bed. I think she did that. She was… motherly, when she was sober." Richie smiled at some hidden joke. "Anyway, I was sore all over. Felt like a train hit me. And I had a massive hangover. I was sick a few more times, and then I took a cold shower. It made the hurt less, washed off some of the—dried blood and stuff. I think it was the buckle, from the shape of some of the welts. We never spoke of what happened, not that they were the type to carry on conversation anyway."

"That's it?" Joe asked, stunned, interrupting the silence that had descended.

"Pretty much," said Richie. "I'm just glad I slept through my punishment. He died, two months later. Heart attack. The state shuffled me off to another foster home, but that was my first time getting drunk." Richie finished his tale and stared into his own beer, his look telegraphing that he wouldn't be finishing it any time soon.

To everyone else, he seemed such the lost little boy. How could anyone want to harm him? Idly Methos wondered if it would comfort him to know that everyone at the table was currently contemplating what they would have done to the man had they been able to lay hands on him. Then Connor tried to lighten the mood.

"My punishment was chores. I think my father sent me around to every household in Glenfinnan, making sure I had enough odd jobs to keep me occupied for nearly a week straight."

"Ha!" exclaimed Joe, taking the hint. "Mine was better. My dad caught me and a buddy with a six pack when I was fourteen." Richie looked up expectantly. "His punishment was to grab another from the fridge and drink with us."

"That's a punishment?" Richie asked in disbelief.

"You bet," said Joe. "After we finished each can he'd ask us if we wanted another. The whole while he was sipping his slowly, but my buddy and I didn't realize it at the time."

"So you drank yourselves sick," Methos stated, an amused grin on his face.

"My buddy and I passed the night in the bathroom paying homage to the porcelain god. Whoever felt that they could stand at the time was forced to use the sink. My mother was giving us water whenever she thought we could keep it down. My father, I don't recall where he was. I just remember his voice coming from somewhere, laughing at me."

"I bet you learned your lesson," said Richie, finally leaving his troubled memories for the moment.

"Oh yeah," said Joe readily. "That morning—or was it afternoon? I dunno. At some point my father drove my buddy home. He was gone a while, so I'm assuming he was filling my buddy's parents in on the situation. They were Baptists—I'd hate to have been in Ted's shoes!" Everyone laughed at that.

Joe continued, determined to showcase the humor in the situation. "Anyway, my mother forced me into a cold shower. I'm pretty sure I had to sit down through it, but I don't exactly remember. Then they put me to bed with a giant glass of water and a bucket, and that's how I had to pass the weekend."

"What a pleasant story, Joseph. Thank you," said Amanda, sarcastically but lightly.

"I'll bet you didn't drink for a long while after that," said Duncan.

"And you would be correct my friend," Joe admitted. "In fact, neither of us touched a drop again until… wow, not 'til Vietnam nearly five years later."

"You see, that's the way it _should_ be done," said Richie. "If the foster father of the month had any sense he would have taught me the _real_ consequences of my actions as opposed to—"

"Tempting the bloody hell out of you to act in spite of him?" Duncan offered, saving Richie the necessity of finishing his statement.

"Exactly," said Richie, surprised.

"And what about you, Amanda sweet?" Connor asked. "You've been rather quiet."

"I'll bet she was stealing drinks right and left," said Duncan. "Or conning some rich buffoon into buying them for her."

Amanda shot him a withered look. "Sure, I worked the taverns," she said, "I'd pick a pocket or two and then beat the hell out of there fast. The penalty for drinking was a night in the stockade, and that's only for _public_ drunkenness. Stealing, however, brokered a hanging."

"Was that how you died the first time?" Joe asked.

"You've read my chronicle, don't you know?"

"The watchers don't have anything on you before you started training with Rebecca," Methos told her.

"I see," said Amanda. Then, looking at Joe: "I'll make it easy for you to remember, Joseph. I was being chased by the authorities for stealing a loaf of bread, and then clubbed from behind. Blunt head trauma, not a pleasant way to die the first time, especially if it doesn't kill you instantly. I finally bought it in the mass grave as they were getting ready to cover it. The next thing I remember is waking up to Rebecca's face."

"All that for a loaf of bread?" Richie asked, stunned.

"Human life wasn't worth spit back then Richie," Amanda said sadly. "Especially the lives of the poor."

"Oh I believe you," said Richie a little too readily.

Amanda looked over at him and her expression softened. A silent moment of understanding passed between them. Of everyone here, Amanda and Richie have the most in common, at least as far as mortal lives are concerned.

"So when did you first taste the drink?" Connor asked, eager to change directions to lighter things.

"With Rebecca. We had wine my first dinner with her."

"Never before that? Not even once?" Asked Duncan, a little surprised.

"With the penalty for stealing so high, Duncan, do you think I'd risk my life stealing anything but food, or using money to buy anything else?" Asked Amanda, slightly annoyed.

"I suppose not," he admitted.

"Fascinating," said Joe to no one in particular.

"Now excuse yourself to the bathroom to go write it down," said Methos as though he was direct a small child.

Joe shot him a look of his own. "Very funny, old man. But you haven't told us _your_ story yet."

"Now this I gotta hear," said Duncan, straightening in his seat.

Methos just stared into his beer.

"I bet alcohol wasn't invented yet," said Richie jokingly.

"Alcohol has been around since time began," Methos said into his beer.

"So have you," Joe reminded him without thinking.

Methos looked up sharply at this, giving Joe a look that conveyed both feelings of betrayal and hatred. Joe flinched and shifted in his seat, knowing he came dangerously close to breaking Methos's cover in front of Connor.

"What? Just because Adam has a personality to rival cantankerous old Mr. Wilson doesn't mean we have to joke about how he always acts so much older than he really is." Duncan tried to imitate Methos's best mocking tone in his best effort to cover for the mistake. Methos turned a questioning eye his way.

"Yeah," said Amanda, catching on. "You'd think he was older than I am!"

Methos smiled, touched and impressed at their readiness to keep his secret.

Connor offered no evidence either way as to what his feelings were. It was true that _Benjamin Adams_ acted much older at times than he admitted to being, and that he was often far too jaded and cynical for a man of those years. Connor laughed slightly, knowing that one's attitude was far from indicative. He had his suspicions, however unfounded, but they were far out of pace for a supposed evening of celebration such as this.

The mood seemed to lighten and the conspirators seemed content that the disaster had been avoided. After a brief pause, each retreating to their own thoughts, the conversation resumed.

"You still haven't told us about your first magical encounter with beer," said Joe.

"Yeah, Adam. They way you worship the stuff I'm willing to bet there's a good story in it," Duncan added.

Methos quirked a smile. _There was a good story, at that_. "Like Amanda I didn't touch the stuff until after my first death. And even then, the drink of choice was mead, or wine if you could afford it."

"What, no beer?" Joe asked. Mentally he was altering the story to accommodate for Methos's age and the fact that he had confessed to having no memory before the taking of his first head. Joe didn't know whether or not to believe him on that count, but as far as this tidbit of information went, Joe gathered that the important part was that Methos didn't try beer until much later in life.

"No beer," echoed Methos, once again staring absently into his glass. "I don't remember when I first tried mead, only that I didn't much care for it. And I was never rich enough to buy wine. I had… modest beginnings I'm afraid."

The others sat, momentarily spellbound. Methos had never shared anything mundane about his past, and certainly never anything from so long ago. With the exception of the horsemen incident, Methos's only divulgences came in the form of anecdotes and pointed parables about his experiences with the clear purpose of giving the others some perspective, or to tip the balance of Duncan's actions.

However, they were never from so long ago. Cassandra is one of the oldest know living immortals, but she is barely 3300. That means that Methos was older than Amanda is now during the time of the horsemen, which makes for a lot of years unaccounted for in the early stages Methos's chronicle. They were each itching for some information.

"So how come you drink it so much now?" Asked Richie, giving voice to the unspoken question.

"Perhaps because I like it," Methos said sharply, irritated.

Richie looked away as if stung, but said nothing. The two had been getting along so well this evening. Painfully he remembered Methos's feelings and pointed comments towards him during the 'phony Methos' incident. For some reason, he wanted to earn the immortal's respect. Mortals he didn't much care about, but immortals, especially friends of Duncan, he was desperately keen on making a good impression with.

Methos noticed this but chose to say nothing. He would have an undisclosed amount of time to 'straighten' the kid out, and he had no wish to spoil the rest of his already tumultuous evening by beginning those arguments now.

"So when did you first try the stuff, if you're so keen on it?" Connor asked, not about to let him off the hook.

The tone of Connor's voice assaulted Methos's ears. It was low, slow, and frigid, almost as though it were a taunt slung at an opponent during a challenge. Methos looked up and regretted doing so as he found himself pinned by Connor's piercing gaze. While Duncan's eyes were painfully capable of showcasing his broad spectrum of emotion, the elder MacLeod could convey an easier, more natural expression of cold, hard reasoning that barely but carefully concealed pure malice. Methos knew that look well, for he had patented it during his reign as Death.

Methos took a slow draught from his glass, draining it almost in a bid for more time. He could still feel Connor's eyes upon him, along with everyone else's. Unfortunately for him, he realized that Connor's very presence brought his guilt over Ramirez surging to the surface of his conscious thought. That, coupled with Connor's deadpan impersonation of Death made Methos resigned to the fact that there was no way he could dodge around this question. Ramirez was kicking for the story to be told, probably from the forefront of Connor's own mind as his quickening swan inside that of his student's, and with a sigh Methos accepted that he couldn't refuse Ramirez this final… request. Begrudgingly he rose from the booth.

"Well, since this story is about beer," he began, "it's best told over a pint or six." Methos walked to the bar and filled two pitchers with the dark malt flavor he had been drinking previously, mentally reasoning out how he would tell this tale while keeping his identity a secret from Connor, the horsemen a secret from Amanda and Richie, and all the while making sure that Duncan and Joe picked up on every word and secret meaning. By the time he returned to the table and began pouring the rounds he had a pretty good idea of how to begin.


	4. Methos's tale

Methos sat down and sipped his beer. He looked around, making brief eye contact with the others, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to do.

"It was during the middle ages," he began. An outright lie. "We were in Europe at the time, somewhere just east of the Urals. I had spent quite a bit of time just wandering the countryside, not really caring about what day it was, or what century for that matter. I was still comparatively young." That part was true, even though at that time period he was older than Amanda is now.

"Comparatively?" Richie arched an eyebrow.

"What some people consider young is a bit different than others," Joe said with a smile.

"Exactly," said Methos. "I had been part of a nomadic tribe—" he suddenly laughed. "Gypsies you could say, although to their culture we cared a little too much about material things." He didn't know how much clearer he could paint it and hoped that Duncan and Joe had caught on by now. If they did they gave no indication. He continued:

"We were a strong enterprise. I guess you might say we had the monopoly on our industry." This was also true, though Methos failed to mention that the 'industry' he spoke of involved spreading fear and death. "If we were in it for the money, we might have described ourselves as wealthy, but really, we were just surviving. Times were hard, and so we joined forces and decided henceforth to share and share alike. We became very good at what we each contributed to the… outfit we had concocted. We were just doing what we were best at, and the wealth and influence kept rolling in. We didn't give it much thought, though. It meant that we had all the comforts of home; and that we were safe and wouldn't starve to death."

Methos once again glanced around the table. Amanda and Richie, both knowing Methos's true age, were doing their best to pick out the true story lying beneath the façade, but without knowledge of the horsemen they were helpless to follow the hints, and the four horsemen of the apocalypse isn't something someone would just guess at. For all intents and purposes, Connor appeared to just be sitting back and listening to the tale. Duncan and Joe had their best poker faces on, so it was unclear if they had picked up on what Methos would have considered his obvious hidden message. Methos decided to clump them with the biggest clue-by-four yet. He looked right at Duncan and said:

"And, for a group of four immortals, starving to death was simply not an option to discuss."

That did it. Duncan's jaw clenched and Methos was sure that his hands under the table were balled into fists, but the highlander did his best, to his credit, to not give anything away by his demeanor. Methos looked at Joe, who had lowered his head to stare into his beer. He grinned wickedly before continuing.

"As I said, we four immortals decided to pool our resources to ensure we lived comfortably for a while. We had all come from a very paranoid, lonely, look-over-your-shoulder way of existing, and frankly we just got sick of it. Four heads are better than one, so we set out to see if four could accomplish what one could not." All eyes were on him, he had them eating out of the palm of his hand, and he was enjoying the power he had over them in that instant perhaps a bit more than he should have.

"We lived like kings. Well, like nomadic kings. Wandering wherever the winds took us. Years passed and we had not a care or concern in the world. No immortal would dare take on four. Even if he won, the others would take his head after the quickening knocked him on his ass." Methos looked at Richie then, who nodded in understanding about their previous conversation. "And it would take a considerable number of mortal warriors to take down four seasoned immortals who grew up living and dying by the sword, and who practiced with them frequently."

Methos closed his eyes and smiled, lost momentarily in memory. It wasn't always bad. There had been lighter moments, moments much like today, where they would pass an evening around the fire, drinking wine and telling tales. For better or worse they were all brothers, and family you always find yourself ready to forgive. Himself, on the other hand…

Duncan saw Methos drift and caught its meaning. However he failed to see below the surface of it, and spoke freely.

"What about betrayal?" He asked coldly.

Methos was jarred out of his momentary reverie. He looked quickly at Duncan and found himself pinned by the highlander's unforgiving gaze.

"B—betrayal?" Methos's voice faltered slightly. It was not unnoticed by the others.

"You know, one of you deciding to turn against another?"

Methos inhaled sharply and looked away. Duncan had only meant to remind Methos of what Kronos had put him through, to remind him of just who he was remembering so fondly. Methos didn't see it that way, however. He had betrayed Kronos to Duncan in the end, and before it was over he himself had taken Silas's head. Methos reeled inwardly from the attack, and absolutely hated being made to feel guilty. He turned his sharply to regard Duncan, but the highlander's expression hadn't changed. He was about to formulate a comeback to put Duncan in his place when it suddenly occurred to him what the highlander's _true_ intentions were. Surely Duncan wasn't referring to the betrayal of the horsemen, but of a betrayal even more personal. Kronos had kidnapped Cassandra while he was telling Duncan about the fountain, and who's to say that Duncan didn't feel like he had been betrayed to Kronos? After all, his victory wasn't assured, and Methos's parting line had been _I go with the winner_.

Methos's resolve crumbled in that instant. Duncan had never intended Methos to interpret his words like that, and immediately realized his mistake. Methos's eyes widened slightly in barely concealed horror, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. He closed his mouth and looked away, dropping his head off to the side and exhaling the breath he had been holding. He shook his head slightly. He regained his composure with a slight laugh and looked up, his expression reflecting some sad truth that only he was privy to.

"No, Duncan. The thought of betrayal never entered our minds. We never had any reason to fear each other."

Methos's uncharacteristic use of his first name was not unnoticed by Duncan, nor was the slight hitch in his voice on the word 'betrayal' or the way the bottom dropped from the sentence as Methos finished it, making his voice almost a whisper. This time Duncan looked away.

"Continue with your story, Adam," said Amanda softly, and Methos knew that there was no escape. He would be forced to tell the story, to relive each moment of it. If Duncan hadn't pointed out harsh reality to him, and if this particular story didn't hold such sad memories, then maybe Methos would have survived its telling. Still, he took a deep breath and centered himself, knowing that he had nothing to do but go on with the tale.

"Right, the story," he said, but there was no emotion in it. "Well, as I was saying, we lived together, cooperated, pooled our knowledge, skill, and resources. Well, to each his niche, and mine was… planning." Methos searched for a good word to use, figuring 'death' would be inappropriate. The same goes for 'educating' new slaves, and acts of physical and psychological brutality.

"I wasn't the leader," Methos continued, "as in I didn't have the last word on things, but _I_ was the one to make the suggestions." If he sounded like he was bragging, well that was intentional. The self-loathing that colored his voice, however? That he had remarkably little control over. It was banished swiftly, however, as the scholar took up the tale again when the five thousand year old man could not.

"Where should we travel, how should we go about business once we get there. I could have led them, but I wasn't… power-hungry… enough for it." Methos look up at the ceiling, avoiding all eye contact with them, and then closed his eyes. "I was the mastermind behind it all. They would tell me what they want and I would give them the means to make it happen. There was no obstacle I couldn't lead us around, no challenge I couldn't break. Without me, our enterprise wouldn't have lasted nearly as long."

The statement didn't have any traces of ego in it. Instead it was lined with something entirely uncharacteristic of Methos: regret, and resignation. Joe could tell that Duncan was the primary audience now, and only some thin remnant of logic caused Methos to shroud the truth for the sake of the others. Joe knew that Duncan was catching the full meaning and implication, and he felt slightly embarrassed, like he was overhearing a priest and confessor.

Methos looked straight ahead now, but at no one in particular. "It was during a rather prosperous time for us. We had managed to procure nearly double what our expected payload was during one particular business deal. Fearless Leader—" he laughed again at his turn of phrase, "decided that all this was somehow my fault, and declared an evening in celebration of me." Methos didn't dare look to Duncan again, and only hoped the man was getting it. The destruction of the city had been total, with very few survivors. Did Duncan know this? Did he understand what it meant? Methos decided it didn't matter because Duncan would force him to tell the real version of the story shortly hereafter.

"Congratulations," said Connor, not heavily but certainly not lightly, sharply cutting through the brief silence. Methos looked at the elder MacLeod, but his face gave nothing away except a passing interest in him and his story. To add insult to injury, Methos wondered what Ramirez had told him, and if he was seeing through the vail like Duncan and Joe.

It didn't matter. Methos would proceed as if his house of cards really stood for something.

"Our leader announced to our servants a contest," he continued. "Whichever one could come up with the best way of pleasing me, of making me happiest, then that person would be given over to my sole employ, as opposed to remaining employed by the organization." All noted Methos's failure to thank Connor for his acknowledgment.

"Their prize was to become your personal domestic instead of a company employee, like a yeoman?" Amanda asked innocently. However much of this story she was buying into, the euphemisms remained intact.

"Something like that," said Methos, briefly looking at Amanda before returning his stare back to the void. "They had until the new moon to come up with their selections."

"Let me guess," said Richie, "the lucky contestant was the one who gave you your first taste of beer?"

Methos closed his eyes, again sucked in by the pain of memory. "Bright boy," he said to no one.

Duncan and Joe both sat back in their seats. Beer was Methos's last connection to the horsemen. What did he think of or remember when he drank?

"I made out like a bandit those two weeks," Methos went on. "I got a new pair of boots, many new clothes, some jewelry, and the many additional comforts that the less mechanically and artistically inclined came up with." Idly he wondered how many saw through that euphemism. He had learned quite a bit about the sexual habits and customs of the different cultures that the horsemen slaves represented.

"Those were a happy two weeks. We had decided that the wine we procured in the deal was too heavy to transport with us, so we stayed just outside the city walls and drank it morning, noon, and night until the last drops were finished."

"Sounds like fun," Richie appraised.

Methos laughed sadly. "You have no idea."

The best part was the glow from the fires at night, as the city slowly burned to the ground. That was back when the smell of burning flesh had actually appealed to him—or rather, his immunity to the scent appealed to him. It makes him sick now, but how much of that is psychosomatic is uncertain.

Methos continued with the tale. After all, it was just getting to the good part.

"In the end it was a tossup. One of the young lads had carved me a beautiful bow. We picked him up in the Balkins somewhere. Thin as a rail and hair down to his ass."

"Young lad?" Duncan asked blankly.

Methos knew why. "Oh yes MacLeod. We equally employed both girls and boys." Methos saw both Joe and Duncan shift in their seats. Richie slouched, the meaning not lost on him even if the context was. Only Amanda and Connor remained stoic at the statement. Methos looked off to the right, trying to wrench the details from his mind.

"His name was Vershkin, or was it Veraskin? Something like that, but I don't exactly remember. He was only with us a short time." As though speaking the memories aloud gave them permission, they all came flooding back. They crashed into him like the pounding tide, trying to break him as the surf erodes the shoreline. In that instant, he secretly wished that the analogy was literal, and that the instant his mind let go, he would be washed back out to see. Drowning in memory surely has to be better than being crushed by it.

Yet that was not an option. Methos was trapped in his chair, forced to weather the tide. The only outlet was verbal, and he let the memories pour from him in the form of words as he continued his tale.

"Medicine as we know it today didn't exist back then. If that little secret of the blood transfusion was known, who knows? Maybe I could have saved him." Methos closed his eyes yet again, this time to blink away tears. It had to have been the spray, right? That's why he felt the sting of salt in his eyes. The memories were doing it. Memories of a child he failed to protect. Memories of the realization the he felt the need to protect the children from his brothers—and not remembering when that need took hold.

Yet unbeknownst to him, Duncan and Joe picked up on something that Methos did not intend. He had attempted to save the boy's life, and his friends reacted to this fact strongly.

"He was barely fifteen at the time and already a man at that age, but still a boy to we four immortals. He hadn't even begun to shave yet." The memories flowed freely and easily over his tongue, and Methos thought to ease their journey with a bit of beer. He took a sip, seeking familiar that comfort, but found that it wasn't forthcoming. Instead, it nearly made him sick. Anyone would have blamed nerves, but Methos laughed and called it karma.

"He came in second, and to reward him I told him to fashion a comb for his hair that would be his to keep." The laugh dissolved into a fond smile. "I still have the bow, and the comb, and the comb still has a few strands of his hair."

Duncan's jaw dropped slightly at this. The events Methos were describing took place over three thousand years ago. That they survived, and that he still had them, was remarkable.

"So who won?" Asked Amanda, anxious to leave what she deemed an upsetting topic behind.

Methos saw this and laughed slightly at the irony. "Ah yes, the winner. The one without whom I would never have tasted this fine, amber liquid." Methos's voice was dripping in mocking sarcasm as he lofted his beer and set it back on the table. Then his eyes seemed to glaze over as the memories took hold once more. "She was beautiful. We picked her up in, I guess it would be Turkey, or thereabouts. She could have been Persian, but she had been a slave before coming into our employ. The daughter of a slave and her master." With a soft sigh the scholar took up the tale, allowing the immortal a moment's respite.

"I guess her mother was captured up north somewhere because she had Anglican facial features, high cheekbones and such, and dark blue eyes. If she didn't have the dark tanned skin, coarser black hair, and smaller stature of Persian women you could have called her Irish by voice alone, but I don't think I'd ever been to Eire then, so who knows." Methos absently sipped his beer again and startled himself by being repulsed by it. He swished it in his mouth a few times before swallowing, and casually slid the glass out of his way. This was not unnoticed.

"What was her name?" Joe asked.

Methos opened his mouth as if to answer, but shut it tightly as a look of sheer horror crossed his face. He muttered something that sounded like it would loosely translate to 'dear God' in a language no one recognized, and looked at Joe.

"I don't remember. She was… I can picture her face as clearly as if I had seen her yesterday, I can remember her voice telling me stories of her homeland. I even remember those damned unimportant stories! And I can't for the life of me remember her _name!_" Methos's first instinct was to laugh at the irony, but it came out as a choked sob. "It appears even we immortals are prone to bouts of senility," he said to Joe, laughing now as he wiped his eyes and hoped that the others thought it was from the laughter.

"Don't worry about it," said Joe, again feeling embarrassed for having to witness this. He half expected Methos to get up, he had a clear getaway, but for some reason Duncan's gaze from across the booth pinned him to his seat the way an angry parents holds a child to a chair for an agonizing lecture.

"Maybe it'll come to you," offered Connor nonchalantly.

Methos took a deep breath, centering himself once again, letting the scholar come forth. He continued after a brief pause. "She was fourteen, or so the best guess was. She was never told her age, and we all sort of ball-parked it from her state of development and things she remembered. Being a slave before we acquired her, she had an amusing sense of what her role was. There was never a period of acclimation, like our other servants. She was prepared and willing from day one."

Duncan didn't know what surprised him more during that speech, the fact that the girl was willing and able to serve the horsemen the way he heard Cassandra describe it, or the fact that Methos spoke with almost no emotion whatsoever, as though he was reciting from a textbook.

"My best guess was that she was part of a small harem from the way she described her life. We all enjoyed the way she would try and pamper us." A slight smile crossed Methos's lips, however fleeting, and didn't quite reach his eyes.

"And a fourteen year old girl knew how to brew beer?" Duncan asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He didn't want Methos to return to the tendrils of memory and not tell the rest of the story.

"No one was as shocked as I," Methos admitted, his voice returning to normal with that statement. "It wasn't all that hard, actually. Apparently the city we stopped at had a thriving beer industry, because the necessary grains grew in the fields outside the city walls. She used one of the smaller empty wine casks and buried it under ground for those two weeks. I don't know where she found the yeast. Remarkable though, the outcome, and I had thought that only the Egyptians held the secret of beer at that time. I guess the Persians discovered it. Funny though, she didn't call it beer. The word she used, roughly translated, means 'grain mead.'"

Methos finished his speech the way a professor wraps up a lecture to enable the students to finish taking notes. He sipped his beer again for emphasis, somewhere in his subconscious believing that it would somehow taste right again. The sharp closing of his eyes and the exaggerated motions of his forced swallowing told his companions a different tale. In an instant the happy-go-lucky grad student persona vanished without a trace and Methos, the millennia-weary immortal replaced him.

"Ellembahara," he said, his voice catching as he practically spit out the remaining syllables. "Ironic I remember the word she used when she handed me a goblet, but her name escapes me."

"What was the word?" Joe asked softly, trying to return the immortal to the present and spare him the agony of memory.

"I remember the _beer_," Methos practically spat, obviously not heeding Joe's comment if in fact he heard it at all. "How fitting." His voice left all traces of pain and was brimming now with sarcasm barely restraining anger. He lofted the glass in a mock salute. "Well here's to you, girly. I hope you're not disappointed that the gift has outlasted the giver in the mind of the eternally grateful!" He downed the remnants of the glass in one long, anguishing gulp. The others could only watch as his face turned ashen green and then washed over to deathly pale.

"Elle-hem-bar-har-a," said Connor, slowly enunciating every syllable. "It's a bastardized form of two separate Egyptian words, no doubt the Persian traders lost something in the translation."

Methos turned sharply to regard Connor, and found himself the subject of the elder MacLeod's careful scrutiny and Connor, for his part, was uncertain of what exactly he saw. Anger, fear, hatred, resignation… guilt? Too many emotions swirled in the other's hazel eyes. Were they brown? Were they green? _Gold?_ It seemed to vary with his true emotions, not the ones he schooled his face into portraying. They finally settled on some dark shade as something new crossed the man's features: realization, and with realization came defeat, and at last Connor knew, or at least greatly suspected. From the void he heard Ramirez's final taunt, or rather, the last words he had ever heard the Egyptian immortal speak.

_I'm turning my back on Death. Poetic, isn't it?_

Too bad it wasn't true. Methos could feel Ramirez's unforgiving eyes like branding irons scalding him unmercifully from behind Connor's boyishly inquisitive gaze. He idly wondered if Connor was aware of just how powerful the presence of an ancient immortal resting on the outside edge of your conscious mind truly was. This immediately hooked Methos's mind into wondering how much of Kronos was staring at him in that moment, hurling heavy-handed words, like 'betrayal' across the booth. It was frightening to ponder yet another shining example of the way Kronos had truly won Bordeaux, for as far as Methos was concerned, the world was ending right now, and he was telling stories by the all-consuming fire.

The spell was broken by the sound of shattering glass. Methos registered the sound, but was somehow detached from it, not recognizing the sound for what it was at first. It was the scent of blood, and someone's frantic yelling, that fully brought him back to reality.

"I'm bleeding?" Methos regarded his hand in amazement. At one point he was holding a glass—where did it go? And how come his hand was stained with blood? Just then his hand was encompassed with napkins and suddenly sound snapped into place. He looked up and it was Richie's voice he picked out first.

"Jesus Christ, old man. Don't you know that Joe charges you if you break glasses?" It was Richie's voice because Richie was the one pressing napkins onto his hand, nothing but concern on his eternally young face. Methos looked around suddenly, remembering he had a rather large audience. Connor was gone, mercifully. He went behind the bar to grab a trash bin and more paper towels. Duncan was gathering up the glass shards into the napkins while Joe wiped up the frothy remnants of Methos's beer glass. Amanda just sat and watched, wonder and concern gracing her dark features.

"I'll heal," said Methos to Richie once he found his voice again. By now Connor had returned and was helping Duncan to dispose of the glass shards and soiled napkins.

"I know that," said Richie, affecting an annoyed tone not unlike the one Methos often uses. "But you just seemed content to bleed all over the booth until then, and I for one hate trying to clean blood out of antique wood-grain."

Richie removed his hands from the napkins as Methos brought his other hand over. He removed the napkins, shocked to discover that his quickening had taken care the injury already. _I healed and didn't even realize it_.

He threw the bloody napkins in the trash bin that Connor had brought and stared at his friends in the booth. They were patiently awaiting Methos to either excuse himself or to continue on with his tale, although none of them would have held it against him if he didn't. Even Duncan, who was so quick want to hold Methos to his fate when it concerned his horseman past, had felt that tonight had progressed rapidly from watching Methos sweat, to going a bit too far, to poignant though indecent insights into Methos's soul. He had wanted to see Methos tell the tale so that only he and Joe would get it, watch him suffer though comfortable discomfort, expecting to feel the heat of Methos's annoyance later on, and then they would both laugh it off and continue with their lives.

It had happened just like that countless times, but since Bordeaux, things had been different. They were trying to rebuild their friendship, but the recent events in Paris could have served to end their efforts before they got off the ground. Duncan had spurned Methos after he challenged Keane, knowing that Methos unabashedly risked his head for him. Then he had begged Methos to stand aside while he challenged Byron, Methos's own student. His turning on Methos after the incident outside the ancient's apartment, wherein he had confessed all about being a horseman, Duncan had thought had been absolved when he convinced Cassandra to let Methos live, but how did Methos see it? _A life sentence_, Duncan thought dryly. _I sentenced him to live, with his pain, with his regrets, with his past_.

Yet in spite of such a harsh judgment, for indeed death would have been the easy way out, Methos had come instantly when Amanda had told him that Duncan's life was in danger, even going so far as to challenge Keane to keep Duncan safe, and he had spurned him for it, cast off the gesture as though it were something vulgar. Then not too much later, after the two had finally been able to maintain the façade that nothing had happened between them, the incident with Byron occurred. Duncan wondered if he would have just stepped aside when a friend told him that Richie had to die, for that's exactly what he did to Methos. _If a friend told me?_ _Sure, a friend who had sentenced me to what could be deemed the cruelest punishment for my crimes and who had practically spat on my purest gesture of what that friendship still meant to me…_

Duncan tensed as he watched Richie hold napkins on Methos's bleeding hand trying to make sure the booth wasn't inundated with blood. He never wanted nor expected this. Methos had tried to rise to the challenge presented him, goaded on by his friends to do so. To tell of the origins of his love for beer and keeping his age a secret at the same time, a perfect little barb at the ancient immortal.

_But why?_

Why did he have to twist the knife? What would come from watching Methos squirm under the unwanted attention? His own satisfaction, and then a day of Methos's fuming anger and perhaps a retaliatory battle of words, but then laughter and drinking and it was behind them, their friendship in tact. All the more bonus that this was a horsemen story.

_Why?_

The question nagged at him as he saw his friend seemingly unaware that he was bleeding profusely. Why did he feel the need to hurt the man so? A man who had saved him from the dark quickening without so much as a breath of judgment, a man who valued his Scottish hide enough to betray his own brothers, a man that he had watched bury the love of his life and in his eyes saw that grief is also immortal. They were truly able to connect then, in their misery. Trading lighthearted stories of Alexa and Tessa until both exhaustion and alcohol claimed them both to sleep. That was on the barge. And when Duncan awoke the next morning, Methos was gone.

_Why?_

Richie was talking now, and the question still nagged at him, even as he threw the glass shards away. Why did he want so desperately at times to pettily hurt the man who had endured blind hatred in exchange for saving his life? Together they had killed his 'brothers,' and Duncan sentenced him to live for his troubles. Even as Methos sobbed, seemingly unaware of how close he had come to losing his head, at the time it seemed like the right thing to do.

Then, as if that weren't enough, he had seen Methos challenge Keane, something the old man rarely did. But why was it so strange? After all, he had killed Kristen. Why? Because the highlander couldn't do it himself. _Chivalry indeed_. Methos would kill anyone—risk anything, even his beloved Silas, to keep MacLeod safe. And he had just let him take Byron's head. _Would I have just let Methos take Richie's?_ The question was ridiculous. There was only one answer.

Duncan saw Methos throw the napkins away, his hand healed. Then he remembered suddenly his first meetings with Methos. He had called the cops to break up the fight with Kalas, _after offering up his head didn't work! _Survival was Methos's chief concern, or so everyone had always though. Yet the true answer was staring at Duncan, as bright and obvious as the overhead lamp above the booth where everyone was watching Methos crumble right before their very eyes.

All those answers were suddenly clear. Why did he try so hard to hurt the man? _Because I felt betrayed when he didn't tell me about the horsemen_. That was it, plain and simple. He wanted to get back at the man who had offered him his head, risked his life to help him during the dark quickening, gone so far as to shoot him or call the cops to keep him safe, taken challenges and heads for him, once from someone he had called 'brother,' and betrayed those he had cared most about to his unyielding Katana, including one of his own students, and all because he felt _betrayed_ that he didn't freely open up and share the most painful part of his past with him. And now he watched helplessly as Methos tried to return to reality, memory of that past threatening to overtake him at every turn, pain visible in his every word, his every gesture, as he valiantly tried to give his challengers satisfaction, _so we can see him squirm_. It made one wonder who the true master of betrayal and cruelty was at this table.

Duncan suddenly felt sick. Methos was wringing his hands together now. The rest sat in awed silence. Duncan knew why. It was the sight of blood on his hands, an integral part of the memory experience. Well it had progressed far enough! Guilt and shame worked to make Duncan nauseous at the sight of Methos, and of everyone watching him like a giant goldfish blissfully unaware of the crowd of spectators gathered around. Methos's mental and emotional state had rapidly deteriorated as the story had progressed, and no one made a move to stop it, least of all Duncan. They were all silently watching this crucifixion to satisfy their own selfish curiosities. Or perhaps they simply didn't know what to do.

Duncan decided that it couldn't continue. He would absolve Methos of the need to continue with the story, wondering why he had stayed with it for so long when given plenty of opportunities to escape. Did he need to appease his audience that much? _Was he searching for the acceptance I have repeatedly denied him? Is that why he invited Richie to stay?_ Duncan resolved to end the matter here and now, and to very soon sit Methos down and have a long chat. He owed the man some serious apologies.

He had just opened his mouth to speak when he heard Amanda's voice.

"Go wash your hands, Adam," she said gently, laying a hand on his shoulder.

This brought Methos out of the fog once again. _Blood. On my hands. Again. I wonder how it always returns to this? These memories would be easier if their blood was nice and stayed on my sword where it belonged._ Then Amanda's voice:

"Go wash your hands, Adam."

_Wash? Wash what? Oh, my hands. There's blood on my hands again. _

"Adam?"

Methos shuddered and shook his head a few times. It was then he became aware of the sea of faces staring at him in wide-eyed concern.

"I'm gonna go wash up," he said quickly as he practically threw himself out of the booth and walked briskly towards the men's room. The sound of running water could be heard moments later. The others sat stunned for a moment before Connor spoke.

"I know who he is now," he said, the tone in his voice giving nothing away.

"What do you mean?" Duncan asked gravely.

"I know what Ramirez told me of him."

"Ramirez knew Methos?" Joe asked, leaving the pretense behind once and for all.

"Yes. In Egypt, millennia ago."

"Millennia?" Richie gaped, astonished.

"They were once quite close, but had sort of a falling out I believe. They hadn't spoken in over 1500 years, and then Ramirez died before they could make amends."

"I see," said Duncan, realization beginning to dawn on him.

"Do you know what caused it?" Joe asked. His manner conveyed 'professional watcher' perfectly, but Duncan could tell his curiosity was more than just scholarly interest. Connor glanced at each face in turn before speaking.

"From what I gathered, another one of Methos's old friends showed up, looking for his head. Ramirez, apparently, was a lot like you Duncan in his younger days, and he took the challenge himself. Apparently the challenger used this golden opportunity to fill Ramirez in on some details concerning Methos's past. Well the challenger killed Ramirez but didn't take his head. When he revived, he and Methos had words, and then parted company, never to see or speak to each other again."

Duncan hung his head, the weight of Connor's words hitting him fully. Methos's friendship with Ramirez hadn't survived knowledge of the horsemen, and now Ramirez was dead, his quickening swimming inside Connor. Methos had gone into tonight knowing that he would have to deal with Ramirez's ghost and Duncan's seeming coldness and unforgiving nature, for the sake of giving Duncan a birthday celebration. No wonder he wasn't too keen on letting Connor know his true identity! He had two antagonists to worry about, and no ally, as Joe he would have been allowed his watcher-esque detachment and Amanda and Richie were blissfully ignorant of all undertones. Granted they sensed something was up, but hopefully now they were attributing to the memory and guilt over Ramirez as opposed to everything else such memory and guilt entailed.

"You know," Duncan declared. A statement, not a question.

"Only what I've been told," said Connor.

"Would Ramirez lie to you?" Joe asked. Again a question that didn't need to be answered.

"Well no wonder he's upset," Richie mused.

"What do you mean?" Duncan asked, curious.

"Well if he and Ramirez were friends and had this huge fight that lasted centuries, and then Ramirez died before they could resolve it, well, I know if it were me I'd be feeling pretty guilty about it. Thinking that I should have, you know, done something or said something. I mean, even we immortals don't have unlimited time. We can't just let things sit and expect people to always be here. How many times have you buried immortal friends in the time that I've known you, Mac? And then, to have Connor sitting here, as blatant a reminder of Ramirez as a neon sign would be—"

"And having to deal with all that baggage on top of telling a story that's obviously emotionally painful in its own right," said Amanda, cutting off Richie as she caught the drift.

"Exactly," said Richie. "Pain, on top of pain, and not wanting to give any of it away."

Duncan smiled. Richie was many things, but oblivious wasn't one of them, not where his friends were concerned. Amanda could be dense at times, existing on 'Planet Amanda,' but even she notices when something is so obviously bothering someone she cares about. He was wrong to discount the two of them as having anything valuable to add to this discussion.

Then his smile darkened as he looked at Joe, and saw similar emotions reflected there. Methos was reliving the pain of the memory, which is attached to the pain of the horsemen, which involves the pain of Ramirez and the pain that Duncan himself was unwittingly inflicting. Pain on top of pain entwined with even more pain, and oh by the way tell a painful story while trying to keep separate versions of that pain a secret from three different people.

It was Joe's turn to hang his head. What he had learned over Thanksgiving should have been enough for him to stop this wretched progression before it began, but then, interfering that that would have signaled that he did, in fact, learn something about Methos that perhaps the others did not know. Either way he could have chosen, there was no way to win, not while MacLeod was pushing for the story to be told. Like the watcher he was, all Joe could do… was watch.


	5. Conclusion

Methos ran his hand through cold water, wringing them to get the blood out of the creases of his flesh and not bothering with the soap. Connor knew some of it. Methos couldn't believe that anything he said or did tonight was coincidence. Amanda and Richie must also suspect something, although that he was one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse isn't something one randomly wonders about their so-called friends. _What could they know?_ Methos wondered. That he didn't want to tell his story, but was pressured into it, and that it holds some painful memories that he didn't want to deal with, but felt obligated (_forced?_) to share anyway? Whatever was brewing in their minds was better than if they were mulling over the truth, however.

Finally satisfied that the raw red color his hands had turned was from the cold water and the harsh abrasion of wringing them together instead of from blood, Methos splashed some of the cold water on his face and turned off the water. He grabbed some paper towels and dried his hands, inspecting his visage in the mirror. He looked two days dead, but at least some of the spark had returned to his eyes. _Time to face the music,_ he thought. _I hope you're happy, highlander._

Methos exited the bathroom and returned to his seat in the booth. Conversation suddenly stopped when he emerged, and all eyes were upon him expectantly.

"Right, now where was I?" He asked, as though the previous incident had never occurred and his soiree into the bathroom but a brief interlude in a lecture.

Duncan placed a reassuring hand on his forearm. "You don't have to do this," he said earnestly, almost pleadingly.

Methos looked up suddenly, both startled and touched. He took his time regarding the faces that stared back at him. Duncan, Amanda, Joe, and Richie had nothing but quiet concern on their faces, yet all that Connor's stoic features betrayed was a quiet yet profound curiosity.

"It's ok MacLeod," Methos said softly, "I want to."

A small pause to collect himself and Methos launched back into his tale, yet this time affecting the air of the most boring lecturer to ever speak in front of people. There was no trace of emotion whatsoever, just a resigned five thousand year old man reciting facts as though he were reading a recipe.

"As I said, her gift to me was beer. Of course it was warm, and didn't have enough head on it, but it was beer nonetheless. I remember that I spit it out the first time I sipped from that goblet. She went from looking like the child proud to give her father a macaroni tie for Christmas to someone afraid that she would be… punished." They others wondered at what word was almost spoken as Methos took a deep breath, and continued.

"It was her reaction to my reaction that did it. I couldn't turn her away thinking she had completely failed. I asked her to tell me what exactly it was I was drinking—you can imagine my surprise when I discovered it was another form of alcohol. Actually, she called it another form of mead, but mead is made from honey." Methos laughed. It was soft, sad, and lasted barely a breath, but it was his first genuine laugh since starting this tale. "I had her tell me all about how she made it. Similar process, the basic principles are the same. Just change a few of the ingredients around, mess with temperature and duration, and voila! Grade-A beer." Methos paused again, checking to be sure his audience was still with him before continuing.

"I guess you could say I wanted to give her an A for effort. I chose her gift over all others and as promised she became mine alone. My companions thought that I had made a good choice, having tried the beer and liked it a bit more than I did my first time. I told her to make sure that we had plenty of it in supply. That was difficult when the base camp traveled, but during the stretches where we were gone for days or weeks at a time, she was always ready when we returned with fresh goblets of beer. Eventually she learned how each of us liked it and brewed separate batches for each, incorporating subtle differences in taste. Ironically I still didn't like it, so I placated myself with water and just let them all believe I was getting intoxicated right along with them. I don't think I drank a drop in those two years."

Methos paused again, this time for his own benefit. He took a few more deep breaths and let them out, smiling at some hidden secret.

"Two years she was mine. We pressed north and west across Europe, and for some reason, cold weather seemed to follow us. I think those were two of the harshest winters I have ever endured." Another pause, but a brief one. "The others had taken to the shared bodily warmth concept to keep their respective tents warm, and in such fashion she shared my bed at night—relax," Methos cut off all argument before it began. "We simple held each other for the warmth of it. It was purely innocent, if ever you could believe I had moments of innocence during that time. I also abstained from my taking my rights, as she was considered my property. Our very first night I had the mind to, but revulsion quickly chased it from my mind. Darius had once said that I had a father's love for her, and I think I agree with him."

"You knew Darius?" Duncan asked before he could stop himself.

Methos looked up suddenly, the spell broken. "What? Oh, yes, I knew Darius."

"His chronicle goes back to the sixth century, though there are incomplete documents of him from before that time. I don't recall any mentions of you." Joe told him, the watcher in him taking over.

"I met him shortly after the light quickening," Methos confessed. "Word had reached me that… his predecessor… was dead." There was an off quality to Methos's voice, something in the way he spoke the words, that made them all wonder exactly what his connection to the fabled 'Ancient' had been. "We kept a… rather informal friendship after that, though I didn't see him often."

"And to the ordinary watcher you were just another everyday visitor," said Connor with a grin, which Methos readily returned. He seemed lost for a moment, caught between times, but then suddenly he blinked and returned to them.

"Anyway," he continued with much effort, "I guess after a while my companions could tell that I wasn't getting any and figured that I had made the wrong choice for my personal servant. Never being one to let an opportunity go to waste, I asked if I could also have the boy who carved me the bow. This suggestion didn't go over too well, share and share alike and all that. The only reason the others didn't complain when Fearless Leader gave me the girl was that she was keeping them all in steady beer supply. A compromise was reached. I had him see to my armor and weaponry, like a squire, and he too would share my tent at night. This allowed me to spend more time planning since I didn't have to see to what few belongings I actually had, which was good for the group, and I had to release the boy to whoever wanted him if they came to claim him." Methos laughed now. It was lighter than before, yet still sad.

"Of course I told him to avoid my companions whenever possible. Out of sight out of mind, right? And it worked, mostly. He was rarely ever called away from me at night. The three of us shared my bed, making it warm enough to bear the winters." Methos sighed tiredly, giving pause before continuing.

"It was a time when I was at peace, that year and a half. I did my day job out of sheer routine if nothing else, but the enjoyment was gone. I would come home and have everything in its proper place. My bed would be warm and my gear taken care of. And my companions and I would sit by the fire and trade stories over strategizing and planning our next move. The four of us still had our disagreements. Swordfights still ended in death to settle who was right. But there was a sense of brotherhood, a true camaraderie. If I could have preserved time I a bottle, I would keep those eighteen months just as they were." Methos sighed again, this time from the weight of remembrance, and he closed his eyes, his breath hitching in his throat ever so slightly.

Duncan placed a reassuring hand on his forearm again and shook it slightly. Methos looked up and met his gaze, then forced a weak smile.

"It's alright, Mac. I'm sure we all have had times that we wish we could revisit."

"My time training with Rebecca," said Amanda absently.

"Heather," said Connor immediately following.

"Thirteen years," said Duncan, thinking of Tessa.

"A year and a half," said Richie, also thinking of Tessa, and of Duncan, of the precious time when he lived with them. It was the only time in his mortal life when he had a real, if non-traditional, family.

Only Joe was silent. The time he wished to preserve in a bottle, as Methos put it, was happening right now. He secretly wished he could tell them all that the happiest years of his life have been these recent ones, the ones since he and Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, his charge, had become friends, resulting in his subsequent friendships with the others sitting at this table. He couldn't recall a time when he was happier, not even when he still had legs. He wished he could tell them that, and he decided that he would. Eventually.

"Well as I said," Methos continued after everyone was granted a moment to stew their own thoughts, "I was the happiest I had been in a very, very long time. They were so young, and I would truly like to say that they were innocent, but whatever innocence they had before, we took by right." Methos hadn't openly used the word "slave," but he didn't estimate the intelligence of anyone present to be unable to pick up on the cues.

"My intro to anthro professor said something about how morals haven't changed through the millennia," Richie interjected. "People have just gotten smarter. They acted on what they knew, and when that knowledge changed, so did their perceptions and their subsequent behaviors."

Methos regarded the teen—no, the _young man_ curiously for a moment. Richie wasn't someone easy to peg, not like his teacher. Duncan was so predictable it was almost laughable, but Richie could say and do things that were utterly surprising. One never knew what to expect from him, aside perhaps from his unswerving loyalty to Duncan. Methos smiled, pleasantly surprised that Richie was able to provide the perfect answer to the unspoken questions hanging in the air.

"I guess we abolitionists had above average intelligence," said Connor. His tone was light, a simple barb, but Methos winced.

"I guess you could say that," he said upon exhaling a breath he didn't realize he was holding. What he didn't see was Duncan's similar response to Connor's statement. They had both been abolitionists during the American Civil War, but for once he had the forethought to not mention that to Methos right now. The man who supposedly hadn't felt guilt since the eleventh century yet still carried around 'a thousand regrets' didn't need one of the big ones rubbed in his face… again.

"You didn't tell me you were taking anthropology, Rich," said Duncan, hoping the momentary change of subject would help.

"Sure I did, you just forgot," answered Richie plainly, and he was correct.

"Must have," said Duncan, his plans to have Richie relive the excitement he had displayed when he first told him all his about anthropology class as a means of momentary distraction foiled.

Methos smiled secretively this time. He didn't pick up on Duncan's first response, but his response to Richie's assurance that he had indeed told him about his class gave enough away. The kid was perceptive, but he still has a lot to learn.

"Well anyway," said Methos, surprisingly eager to finish his tale.

"Right, you were saying Adam?" Amanda encouraged. Even though there was no need to use his alias, Methos still didn't need that particular bombshell dropped on him at the moment.

"As I was saying," continued Methos, "I was happy. But alas, all good things come to an end eventually. I just thought I'd have more time with them, or rather foolishly hoped I would."

"Amen to that," said Duncan. The others murmured in agreement.

"It was early fall, I remember we were up north someplace. Could have been present-day Germany. The borders were—"

"Different?" Joe offered.

"Non-existent," corrected Methos. "Verashkin—yes, there was definitely an 'ash' in his name." Methos grinned at having finally remembered the boy's name correctly. "Verashkin went to go find a suitable whetstone so he could sharpen my sword. That whole out of sight, out of mind thing worked like a charm. He was out of my sight, and _he_ didn't mind."

"He who?" Amanda asked.

Methos sighed. He couldn't bring himself to reveal this part of the tale to them. That 'he' had been Caspian. A quick glance around the table showed that Duncan had understood that he was referring to one of the horsemen.

"One who was jealous," Methos explained, the most he would say on it. Then: "When I found him, it was too late. The wound on his neck wasn't severe enough to kill him, but the pain of… his injuries… caused him to pass out. He bled to death from a treatable wound."

Methos didn't dare look up; instead he cupped his hands together in the air, elbows resting supportively on the table, and he leant into the fist, shielding his eyes and praying equally that they both did and did not understand. His poor Verashkin… He often wondered if the boy had screamed. Caspian always liked it when they screamed. Yet he had gone too far out into the woods for anyone to ever know.

Finally Methos continued, thought he didn't move from his position. "He wasn't dead when I found him, but I… I thought he was. He came to when I bent down to him. There was such… anger, in his eyes, but it wasn't directed at me. He tried to speak, but he couldn't with all the blood in his throat… And, I held him. I had my hand over the wound—I already knew that he'd lost too much blood, but… what was I supposed to do?" Methos laughed then, startling them all. He shook his head briefly, yet returned swiftly to the moment he was remembering.

"His hand—on the side away from me, thrashed at the ground. I thought it was a seizure of some sort; his whole body was rigid from summoning the strength to move. He finally grabbed what he sought for—it was the whetstone. He thrust it at me, and managed to choke out his native word for 'sorry,' before dying there in my arms."

"He blamed himself for it," Duncan concluded in the silence that followed.

Methos nodded curtly, fearing that his voice would break if he spoke again and regretting that he didn't take Duncan's offer to not finish the tale. There was silence for a moment, no one daring to disturb Methos as he collected himself. He silently thanked them for that, a final consolation since he was rather unsuccessful at hiding his emotions. Suddenly he dropped the fist and looked up, a cold and unreadable expression on his face. The look in his eyes had switched from the green side of hazel to the gold and would have frightened anyone who it was directed towards.

"I took his body back to camp and instructed the other slaves to build a funeral pyre. In those days, that type of thing was only reserved for revered fallen warriors or kings. The higher the pyre rose the more respect shown for the dead, the belief being that it was easier for their spirit to find its way to heaven, or whatever we called it back then. Heaven hadn't been invented yet."

If it were possible, Methos's eyes took on an even more menacing look. That compounded with a concrete and expressionless face and his unusually pale skin after tonight's ordeal presented the others with a truly frightening image. Whatever Richie and Amanda thought, Duncan, Connor, and Joe realized with a touch of awe that they were staring into the face of Death. Put him in a warlord's garb, give him long hair, a horse, a sword, and some woad and Duncan was finally able to picture the Methos that Cassandra knew. The fact that he let the pretense slip and referred to their 'servants' as slaves was only further testimony of the transformation.

"It was a decent whetstone gave me," Methos added absently. That detached tone coupled with the look of Death, and Duncan could picture it clearly: _I am Methos, Lord Death. You live to serve me, _spoken as though he was referring to the weather.

"You used it," said Richie. Again it wasn't a statement.

Methos turned to face him, and Richie saw the look that was the forerunner to the expression he used when explaining why everyone was going to be referring to him by alias. Richie slid back in the booth almost reflexively as his color paled, but didn't say another word.

"I used it. On my sword. On my axe. On every dagger I possessed. I wore them all when I left my tent. The funeral pyre was approaching waist-level, Celesta making sure that the others constructed it to my liking. It was a good thing I didn't have to correct them. I would have hated to dull my blade on someone else." All pretenses were gone as Methos delivered the speech exclusively to Richie, who regarded him with wide, fearful eyes, but still said nothing. No one did. No one dared.

Methos returned to addressing the whole group as opposed to just one person. He didn't even realize that he had remembered the girl's name.

"I had only revenge in mind. I knew where to look to find the one responsible, and I… satisfactorily, avenged Verashkin's death."

Duncan bit back a gasp. Cassandra had told him the things that Methos was capable of doing to other human beings, especially to immortals, and that was when there was no personal motive behind it, only pleasure and sheer amusement. He forced his mind not to contemplate what Death would have done to someone when motivated by the thirst for vengeance.

Methos stared each of them down, almost daring them to speak. He was caught reliving the emotions and didn't have the resolve to force them behind his usual walls and defenses. Death had emerged again in his defense, and Methos was well aware of him, and didn't have the strength left to care.

It was Connor who answered the unspoken challenge. "I would have done the same," he said genuinely, but still with the chill in his voice from earlier as if to emphasize the statement.

"Would you?" Death challenged him.

"I have," Connor said immediately, his voice and expression the same.

"Have what?" Death spat, as if words could kill.

"Introduced men to death."

"Death?" Methos said it, his own name, in a 'what, who me?' sort of tone. Connor didn't so much as blink, but Methos knew. Connor knew exactly who was staring at him just now. Methos felt the weight of that one word spoken with unchecked double meaning. In Connor's eyes Methos saw Ramirez, his judgment and his rage. It was enough for Methos to force Death back into the nether regions of his subconscious. His expression softened like melting snow and his eyes returned to a shade of green that conveyed the exact opposite of Death's uncaring, sociopathic malice: vulnerability. He wasn't even Methos anymore. Adam Pierson had returned, looking lost and slightly frightened they way young children do when they are about to be punished.

"Was her name Celesta?" Duncan asked gently.

_Adam_ looked at Duncan in bewilderment for a moment before realization dawned, and with it Methos returned to his expression like someone had drawn the shade in a sunlit room.

"Celesta…" He breathed, closing his eyes and finally giving a name to the face. "Yes." When he opened his eyes again, the look that had been there when he came back from the bathroom had returned. Once again, Methos continued as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened just now.

"By the time we set fire to it, the pyre was over my head. I had to climb it and have the others pass his body to me. He wasn't embalmed, but the body was bathed and his hair was combed. They put on clean, unsoiled clothes. I remember objecting to that at first, but relented because he didn't die in battle, so had no battle wound to show off when his soul reached its destination. And the clothes he died in were… soiled." Methos paused to glance at faces once again. No one seemed afraid of the man telling the tale. Curiosity and sympathy were all he read from them.

"I put his hands on his chest over the stone, which I placed over his heart. He didn't die free. I didn't know what his belief was as far as the next life was concerned, but I wanted his spirit to be free. I carved the word in Cuneiform on the stone, since that was the easiest to carve into rock. He died in early fall. By late winter I had lost Celesta too."

"I'm sorry," said Amanda. It had all the effectiveness of trying to blow out a forest fire, but it was the sentiment that counted.

Methos merely shrugged. "I had gone scouting. We were headed west and I wanted to see where a suitable place to camp could be found. I was on my way back when a blizzard struck. My horse couldn't find his way in the snow and took a bad fall. After my legs healed… Well, _his_ legs weren't so lucky. I had to put him down. Thus went my chance for warmth, so I decided to keep going. I could freeze to death, but it's not like it would be permanent. Thankfully I had scored some of the trees with my axe as I passed on my way out, so I had a trail I could follow back to camp. I had made it most of the way there, I think I only had another mile to go, and then it got dark. With the blizzard there was no moon so I couldn't see. I sat by that tree to wait it out, either for the blizzard to end or the sun to rise. Sunrise happened first." Methos paused as he was forced to repress a reflexive shiver.

"Unfortunately I had frozen to death and revived so many times that I didn't exactly notice anything but the interesting shapes of the snowflakes." Joe laughed slightly, picturing the scene, remembering what Methos had told him over Thanksgiving, about his tendency to get lost in snowstorms. Methos smiled slightly, also remembering the conversation, and this gave the others permission to laugh a little, and the tension was deflated.

"Celesta found me. I don't know how she did it, but she stolen Fearless Leader's horse and set out to find me and bring me back. She didn't know about my immortality. She left when it started to get dark and had been searching all night. I vaguely remember her heaving me up on the animal's back. I recognized the animal and didn't realize it wasn't ridden by its usual owner. It's a good thing she didn't understand the language I spoke in the entire ride home." His tone was light, as if it was something laughable now. Or maybe he was remembering what exactly he had said believing her to be Kronos come to save him.

"I came to my senses in my tent, a healthy fire was going and I felt quite warm. All wonderings of how I managed to find myself back in my tent were abandoned once I realized that I was naked in bed with one very naked Celesta asleep on top of me." His tone was light enough for that statement to incur a laugh. "Shared bodily warmth, people!" Methos said with mock indignation, only to be greeted by more laughter.

"Anyway," he said, trying to restore order. He wasn't about to get this far in his tale to quit now! "She didn't feel too cold so I slid out from underneath her without waking her, dressed, and went to address our humble leader. I had meant to thank him for rescuing me from the cold, but he informed me that Celesta had stolen his horse and gone off in pursuit of me and that it was a miracle she didn't freeze to death, another that she found me in the middle of a blizzard, another that she didn't get hopelessly lost, and a fourth that he didn't kill her when she came riding back into camp on _his_ horse."

This time Duncan laughed, picturing Kronos's face when he sees a slave riding into their camp on _his_ horse with a mostly dead Methos slung across it. The others joined in the laughter and Methos let the moment pass before continuing.

"Four miracles," he said blandly. "The fifth would have been if she had managed to not catch a chill out there. The sixth would have been if I was somehow able to prevent it from developing into pneumonia. The seventh would have been if she had been able to fight off the illness. The eighth would have been if the ground weren't too frozen to bury her or if we could have spared the firewood to light a funeral pyre. Four miracles. Four tragedies. And I couldn't even give her a proper burial."

Whatever mirth was in the air died out completely by the time Methos finished that statement. His tone was lifeless, once again the air of the lecturer speaking about trivial academic things.

"The first few days I wasn't all that worried—every mortal catches colds. But… she worsened, and in the next few days I realized it could be developing into something serious. And the next few days I was trying to find a remedy—you can't know how surprised I was, that I remembered… but in the dead of winter I couldn't find the proper herbs, and we were in the wrong part of the world from what I knew. I could only pray it wasn't pneumonia." The regret in Methos's voice was a palpable ache that everyone felt. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, as once again they threatened to run away with him, but soon he continued.

"The next few days she was bedridden, and I tried to stave off the fever and coughing fits that left her breathless. The days after that I… accepted… that I could not save her. And I didn't eat, and I didn't sleep, lest I not be there when she needed me. After that, she grew delirious, and I knew the end was near. One night I prayed to her gods that they would ease her pain and speed her passing, but by then she had ripped enough blood vessels in her lungs for blood to fleck on her face as she coughed. The… the next night, I prayed to mine, before I made her drink a poison that would act swiftly and painlessly. It did, and she… had peace at last." Methos supported his head on his combined fist again, wiping at unshed tears with his knuckles.

He wasn't the only one. Amanda was crying too, and so were Richie and Joe. Duncan had come dangerously close, the part where Methos, or rather, where Lord Death got on his knees and prayed to his gods on behalf of the girl nearly did him in. Connor's face was expressionless, but there was sympathy in his eyes.

"We had to bury her in the snow, there was no other way. I insisted on doing it myself, but Fearless Leader insisted on helping me. We had a little wine left. I was saving it for a special occasion. I performed a short ceremony for the benefit of her gods since I didn't have anything appropriate to carve her freedom into."

"What type of ceremony?" Joe asked, motivated by scholarly curiosity.

"The closest I can compare it to is a baptism. Essentially I gave her a new name, one that isn't the name of a slave."

"What name," Joe persisted, anything to keep Methos talking, to prevent the memories from taking him.

Methos paused, as though he was considering whether or not he would answer. "Vardiel," he spoke at last, decisively. "The language was long dead even then. It means 'exalted daughter.'"

"You adopted her posthumously?" Joe asked, still not satisfied.

"Something like that," said Methos with a sad smile. Joe's tactic was working. "And after that, well, I felt the need to get drunk."

"Understandably," said Connor.

"Unfortunately I had used the last of the wine," Methos continued, not giving Connor's statement any recognition. "There was the beer, however. Three sizeable casks of it, one for each of the others, buried just outside camp. I dug them up one by one until I had consumed every last drop. Surprisingly, it tasted much better cold." Slight laughter from the others at this. Then: "This led me to experience a brand new way of dying: alcohol poisoning. Not one of my favorite methods I'm afraid. To spite being drunk, it was horribly painful. I remember throwing up in my tent, Fearless Leader laughing at me as he held my hair back and forced me to eat snow, for my taste buds and the hydration." Methos looked at Joe with an annoyed expression on his face suddenly. "Yes Joseph, I had long hair once. Half way down my back at that point if you believe it."

"I didn't say anything!" Said Joe defensively, cursing when Methos's face contorted into an, 'I got you' shaped grin.

"Anyway," said Methos continuing, his voice back to lecture mode, "he left me in bed at one point, and I died shortly thereafter. I vaguely recall wondering if I would stay permanently dead. When I revived, disappointed that hangovers come with waking up even from death, I drank all the water I could find." More laughter, and this time Methos joined in.

They were still laughing when Methos said: "I grabbed Celesta's possessions, and Verashkin's, stole a pack horse since my horse was dead—didn't bother with a saddle though, and I rode out of camp without looking back."

Duncan, Joe, and Connor stopped laughing abruptly, Richie and Amanda got the hint and stopped a few seconds later. Methos still had a huge grin on his face, the point of the story finally having come across.

"You left then?" Duncan asked softly.

"Yup," Methos answered, as though the question was as trivial as 'you like cheese?' "She gave me beer, a gift that I didn't like, but her gift gave me a daughter in return. My first time drunk on beer killed me, literally, and in the early hours of the morning after I effectively handed in my resignation, and left."

"Wow," Richie breathed. No one else spoke.

"So beer was your way out?" Joe asked after the pause.

"Not my way out; just a significant player in the circumstances of my leaving."

"And it's your connection to her now," Duncan concluded, thinking of all the pieces of Tessa's art he has at both the dojo and the barge.

Methos didn't answer that. He didn't have to.

Amanda absently fiddled with her crystal necklace. They sat in silence for a few moments, each letting the immediate effects of Methos's tale run their course.

"Suddenly mine doesn't sound so bad," said Richie, a weak smile on his face. For a moment it looked as though the comment landed in dead air.

"Don't say that," said Methos, not looking at up from the spot on the table he had become so interested in, but his voice conveying a level of sympathy and sad understanding that surprised everyone. Then, as if all emotion was deftly harnessed and pulled back behind the traditional Methos mask, he stood up, and with a wave to the booth he said: "Well I'm going to head off; it's already past my bedtime."

Everyone sat stunned. By looking at and listening to Methos just now you couldn't tell that anything significant had been said or done this entire evening. It was as if telling the beer stories never happened.

Methos put his coat on and opened the door.

"Snow's let up, but you should all drive carefully anyway. Perhaps you should all pile into Connor's rental jeep—I don't think either car out there will be any good in this weather, and Richie has already proven that his bike isn't—oh! Right. Richie. I think that you should stay at Joe's tonight. Tomorrow when the roads have been plowed and salted you can arrange to get your stuff from the dojo and head over to my place. Just be sure you call first."

Richie blinked in surprise. "Yeah, sure" he managed to stammer.

Methos flashed one of his characteristic sarcastic half-smiles and shut the door behind him on his way out.

"What the hell just happened?" Amanda asked once they heard Methos's range rover drive off.

"More than you know," said Duncan, more to himself than as an answer to Amanda's question.

"Well the night's still young," said Amanda, "why don't you fill me in on the inside jokes."

"Not a chance," Duncan negated.

Before Amanda could give voice to her indignant expression Joe said: "It isn't his story to tell, Amanda. You'll have to ask Methos."

"Right, like he'd answer me," she scoffed.

"You never know," said Duncan, looking at the door where Methos exited. "You never know."


End file.
